Black Dog
by Essayel
Summary: A black dog limps away from the battlefield. Life as a human has been a disaster surely life as a dog will be an improvement. AU Post-Voldemort Fic.
1. Default Chapter

Black Dog by Essayel 

An R rated, Post-Voldemort fic that is now, sadly, also AU. Much angst, some fluff and my idea of what Draco might grow up to be if given a severe enough thrashing at just the right moment. All usual Disclaimers apply.

Black Dog  -  Prologue 

All day long the heat had been growing. Soft and still, full of the scents of summer, the air pressed down upon everything like a great soft warm paw and the small creatures of the countryside, knowing well what this forbodes, twitched their whiskers and retreated to burrow and crevice and form. Only the mistle thrush remained, perched high in an alder tree, with head thrown back, speckled breast glowing in the low light of the sun, carrying out his duties as the storm cock as he filled the air with his heady song of warning.

In the old quarry the heat was even more oppressive. Overgrown, with crumbling walls, the cirque of golden stone was almost filled with a great tangle of brambles. The villagers had long since ceased to come for stone to build their walls and houses, preferring their building materials to be delivered neatly vacuum-packed on a pallet. It had been busy once, yielding stone for the church that nestled in a fold of the hill, for the castle, proud upon its brow like a broken crown and for the villa, now only to be seen at sunrise or set as a faint series of marks under the pasture. It was a quiet place, a safe haven. A few bold rabbits ignored the thrush's warning and ventured out to feed but a new scent was in the air and only the very boldest, hopping carefully between the barbed stalks, went far enough to look and see and retreat with a flash of white tail.

Beneath the arching stalks, if one knew where to look, was a hollow, once used for bonfires but now deep with dead leaves and the dry stalks of fireweed. Here lay the cause of the rabbit's alarm – an immense black creature. It looked as though it could be dead but the rabbit had known better and a blowfly, landing speculatively upon the tip of one ear, took off with an angry buzz when its perch flicked reflexively. The beast gave a low groan and moved a little before subsiding again. It was a dog, enormous, heavy-boned and long-legged, with dense, shaggy black fur, now sadly patchy and showing bare and angry flesh in several places on shoulder and flank. The poor beast's head was distorted with swelling from its left eye back across cheek and brow. There was a raw burn across its muzzle and lips and the fur of its breast was thickly matted with blood. The fly landed again with the persistence of its kind, crawling across a damaged paw and the dog twitched the paw with a groan, brushing the fly away then raised its head, panting. One pale eye opened briefly, the other was a mere slit in the swollen flesh and the dog turned its head to lick at a wound on its shoulder, searching the torn flesh with its tongue until blood flowed sluggishly. It whined and lay its head down again, breath harsh and whistling.

At length the creature's breathing slowed and it slept while the light faded from the sky. Eventually the rabbits emerged again and sniffed around the edge of the hollow, eyes staring at the scent of blood and pain, and managed to snatch a few mouthfuls of grass before a cold little wind rattled the leaves of the brambles and from far, far away came the distant rumble of the gathering storm. The rabbits hopped back to their burrows and so were warm and dry when the first fat raindrops came plopping down onto the hot, parched ground. The dog in his hollow sighed as the heat began to lift but he did not wake. 

*

It was a bad storm. Trees came down across the road out of the village.  The chimneypot on the roof of the doctor's house was shattered by a lightning bolt and three cows, sheltering beside a wire fence, were laid low by another. 

The publican, closing early, because even his regulars hadn't ventured out on this wild night, said to his wife, "What a month for storms we're having! Look at that rain! Mind you, it's not as bad as that one last night." 

She came to stand at his elbow and peered uneasily down the deserted street.

"Last night was something special," she agreed. "It didn't rain at all – just that awful lightning and the ground throbbing like a drum. A storm like that comes once in a lifetime… if you're unlucky." She sighed and took his arm and rested her cheek against his shoulder. He slipped his arm around her waist, feeling that she was shivering slightly, and pulled her close, as much for his own comfort as for hers. He looked out and winced as the white flicker behind the tower of the church illuminated the tossing branches of the churchyard yews. 

Last night's storm had indeed been something special and a time or two he had had the strangest notion that something momentous was about to happen…that perhaps the world was coming to an end?  A foolish notion, now, but not at the time. He remembered the constant roar of the thunder, how the sky had glowed with dancing blue and green and scarlet streamers like the northern lights, the white forks of lightning stabbing the ground to the east, always the east, and how, finally, every edge and surface in sight had lit up with St Elmo's fire and gooseflesh had rippled painfully across his body. It seemed that the whole world had held its breath before the awful final detonation had shaken the building and an equally terrible silence had fallen. 

But it was just a storm, that's all...surely.

 He sighed as well and held her tightly.

"At least this looks - natural," he said, "but it's still no fit night for man nor beast to be out. Early night, love?"

"Early night," she agreed, pushing the door closed and tripping the latch, then they went off to bed. Hand in hand they climbed the stairs and, once under the covers, turned to each other to give and receive loving comfort until eventually they slept and their memories of fear faded as memories will.

*

As the storm raged and the thunder increased in frequency and volume, the dog whimpered in panic, paws scrabbling amongst the dirt, then the lightning flashed again but this time instead reflecting dully from sodden black fur it illuminated pale skin and torn fabric. 

A man crouched in the hollow, his body as damaged as the dog's, his garments tattered, his face cut and burned and swollen. The rain battered his chilled flesh and a deep groan tore from between his lips as he writhed in the grip of his dream:

a white face with burning eyes

a cruel voice whispering,

whispering terrible things,

urging terrible deeds

the small man watches, face alive with horrified glee

blood and the pain and the screams of another

a person he should never have had to hurt

The red eyes turn to him and a long hand gestures

"Crucio" the small man cries

 the pain of the curse is almost beyond bearing

 The battered body bucked at the memory, cracked nails driving into the palms

the little man laughs

the sight is almost enough to drive the pain away

the red eyes turn away with contempt to direct the curse against others

a girl this time, shrieking, eyes wide

a red haired boy, a youth, a man

covers her with his own body and shrieks in his turn

and the others come, flinging themselves into the fray, eyes blazing with futile gallantry.

 He gave a great cry, a cry that sounded as though he expelled his soul with the air from his lungs.

They died

the boy with the green eyes

the man with the golden eyes

they stood and fought and died while he grovelled in his pain. 

What's left but revenge?

The small man's screams are sweet to the ear,

his blood is sweet to the tongue,

without him the white faced one is impotent. 

So easily, so cheaply the battle is won!

One life, the life of a rat!

So hard, so high the cost of discovery! 

All lives - all the dearest and the best.

His body shook with sobbing and he threw back his head and cried in denial, the sound merging eerily with the wail of the wind. Then the man was gone and in his place the dog raised his muzzle to the uncaring sky and howled his heartbreak until his desolation was drowned by the thunder.

*

The rumbling crash shook the makeshift ceiling and all the candles and torches flickered but the medic did not falter, his wand moving surely and steadily, his voice intoning softly but clearly. Tony Lyle had been working for twenty three hours straight and this burned and damaged body was just the latest in the long procession – though perhaps more badly damaged than most. At least this one was young and strong. He glanced across at his companion. Ray was labouring over another barely breathing carcass but he could not spare the time to look away.

The volunteer medics had waited off shore. The entire Welsh contingent had retreated to Ynys Enlli and the Scots to Lindisfarne with such of the English as could be spared. The Russians, he had heard, had landed in Iona and most of the Americans in Eire, while he and his group had found themselves on a sun-drenched beach on the island of Sark. There had been some kind of warning. For God's sake stay away, we'll call when we need you, don't risk yourselves, you may be our last hope. At least, that's what he had been told the message said. And so they had waited on the beach while the tension mounted and some of them had shucked off their robes and splashed in the surf until the senior medic called them to order. Not a patch on Bondi, of course, but it was nice enough until the alarm was raised and they had clustered around and taken their Portkeys – apparently – to an outpost of hell. Tony shuddered at the memory of their arrival, his first sight of the battlefield mercifully obscured by drifting clouds of thick, black, meat-smelling smoke, then they had seen the survivors and had realised why their stay on the beach had been so necessary. 

He sighed as he finished the final incantation then levelled his wand at the young man's heart. Revelare salus, he murmured and looked closely at the colours of the man's suddenly visible aura. Citrus yellow with physical stress shot through with the ugly smoky brown shadows of injury yet there was still a steady beating core of intense blue-green at the centre of it.

"This 'ns a keeper," he said. "How're you doing, Ray?" Ray didn't reply but the grim expression on his face was answer enough. Tony turned and gave his assistant an encouraging smile

"Any more for me?"

The English mediwitch shook her head as she reached for a bowl and sponge and began to gently clean the blood and grime from the newly healed flesh of their patient.

"These were two of the last to be brought in," she said, wearily. "Nobody else that close to the epicentre survived." She drew a deep breath and blotted her eyes on her sleeve and he wondered who she had lost in the battle. "There are minor injuries," she continued, "and your Psych people are going to have their hands full." She stifled another sob and continued with her work, doing by hand a job that would have taken moments if she had still been able to use the wand at her belt, if she had still been able to use her magic. 

The door opened and he turned to shout at whoever it was to bugger off out of it but paused as he recognised the man who entered. This was the first man Tony had seen on the battlefield…Advancing through the smoke he had heard voices raised in agony. This man had been on his knees, useless wand discarded as he tried to staunch the blood flowing from the wounds of a pale faced woman. He had raised his head and begged for their help, bloody to the elbows, his Auror robes tattered and singed. Tony noticed that he had washed his hands and changed into clean robes but his pale hair was still stained with blood and smoke and his eyes were desolate.

"Hey," Tony stepped forward hastily as he staggered and caught him under the elbow. "Are you hurt?"

The young Auror shook his head then gave a bleak laugh and extended a burned and blistered arm. "This is nothing," he said, "in comparison."

Tony didn't need to ask with what. "I'll sort that out for you, mate, come and sit down here."

"No." The Auror shook his head. "I haven't got time. How many patients have you got in here?"

Tony shrugged. "Half a dozen we're still working on," he replied. 

"Any identifying features?" the Auror demanded. "I'm looking for a man with a scar…"

"This lot have all got scars," Tony replied sadly, "or will have if they survive."

"A scar here," the Auror's unburned thumb drew a jagged line across his forehead. "I've checked all the wards, the walking wounded and the mortuary. This is the only place left."

Tony stared at him, realising the significance of his remark, and drew breath to reply but was distracted by Ray who let out a howl of fury.

"No, damn you," he was raging at his patient, " you will bloody well not die on me!" Tony fled to his side and together they levelled their wands at the faltering heart while a pugnacious little Welsh medic boosted the decreasing blood pressure with an incantation that rolled off his tongue in a soaring melodic baritone.

"Duw mawredd," he gasped. "Almost lost him there, boys."

Tony shook his head. "This guys too tough to die – from the look of him he had survived worse than this."

 The Auror had followed and he looked down in pity at the damaged body, the twisted and broken limbs with the bright new wounds overlaying old, long healed, white ones. He leaned forward, studying the swollen and blistered face intently, then he turned to the other table where the English witch had just begun to wash the face of the young man who lay there. He held his breath until she had finished then let it out in a long exhalation of relief. He was quite appalled when his inhalation turned into a sob but that, most fortunately, was drowned out by the mediwitch's exclamation.

"Good grief, this is Harry Potter!"

Tony turned to her, his mouth dropping open with astonishment and the Auror gave a rather snide laugh.

"Yes, good job he didn't die on you isn't it?" he said. 

**


	2. Black Dog Chapter 1

**Black Dog**

**Chapter One**

That winter the weather was exceptionally harsh. Not much snow fell, white Christmasses were a thing of the past, but there was fog and frost aplenty, driving rain and a deep, all-pervading chill. Now, spring was on its way, the air was milder, the land was full of the rush and chuckle as the waterlogged ground gave up its moisture, and the windy uplands were alive with the voice of lambs. White fleeced and wobble-legged they followed their mothers or played together in the shelter of the hedges, their little hooves splashing in the puddles that everywhere lay on the turf. Such weather is deadly for lambs. The delicate fleece that can combat the coldest frost becomes wet, the little bodies chill and there are casualties. One such lay abandoned beside a ditch, the mourning ewe having departed to care for its twin, and the carcass had been discovered by a vixen. Her cubs weighing heavily within her, she was glad to find this fresh meat. It was too big for her to carry so she pawed at it to turn it over and began to tear at its belly, hurrying to eat as much as she could before she was disturbed by the other larger predator that had recently invaded her territory. Sure enough, before long she scented its approach. She turned and growled, for form's sake as much as anything, then whirled and darted through the hedge like a lick of flame. 

Dog watched her go, marking the line of her path for future avoidance, then turned to the carcass of the lamb. His ribs staring through his coat, he looked and was half starved. He placed a paw on the lamb and tore at the meat, gulping down the soft parts and sheering through the bones. In minutes the body was gone and he licked the blood carefully from the grass before turning and making his way back up the hill towards the thicket where he was lairing. Carefully skirting the edges of the fields, keeping to the ditches and the cover of the hedges, Dog limped along, favouring one hind leg. A week or so earlier he had been clipped by a car while crossing a lane at dusk and had crawled to the thicket to recover. There was a stream on the north side of the little wood and a falling tree had landed propped against another, forming a natural shelter. Then the lambing had started, the wet weather ensuring an easy source of meat, so it was a good spot to lay up. He slid through a gap in the hedge and lay down in a patch of weak sunlight, stretching his bruised leg with a sigh. Already the pain was less and soon he would be able to resume his long journey.

*

Five hundred yards away, on the hill above the thicket, a young man turned to his father.

"There," he said triumphantly. "Did you see that?"

"All right, you told me so," the farmer said, his face grim. "How many lambs do you think it's taken?"

"A dozen, perhaps. Three in the last week for sure. The bastard. Shall I go back to the house and fetch the shotguns?"

The farmer looked down at the thicket and studied the lie of the land around it, then shook his head.

"No, Dave, don't do that. Did you see the way it moved? An ordinary dog would have cut straight across that field; that one moves like a wild animal. We'd never get close enough and we haven't got the sort of shells that would kill it outright and I'm not having that roaming around wounded!"

His son nodded then gave a sudden crack of laughter. "It explains that daft woman from the holiday home with her talk of having seen a black panther. Lord, we were having a good laugh about that in the pub. Pity it isn't one though, we could catch it and sell it to a zoo, but nobody's going to buy an old dog."

"Oh, I don't know," the farmer said, thoughtfully. "A dog that size could be worth quite a bit to the right man."

"Oh, Dad," the young man frowned. "Kill the beast and have done with it."

"Listen, boy," his father spoke softly, his cheeks reddening, "with lambs selling as they are and ewes at three for a pound we can't afford to pass up any chance to make some cash. Come on, let's go home and you can put the kettle on while I make the call."

They walked off down the hill towards the little huddle of farm buildings but the young man looked back more than once, regretting that he had ever drawn the dog to his father's attention.

*

A day or two passed. Two more lambs died and the ground began to dry out a little. At dusk Dog slipped silently through the gap in the hedge and trotted down to drink from the stream. It was time to be moving on. Rest and calm and plenty of meat had done much to soothe the damage to his leg and he turned his nose towards the north and set off towards the line of hills on the horizon. Dog cut through the pasture, the ewes watching him but without panic, and he paused to watch a helter-skelter gang of lambs as they rushed along the line of the ditch, leaping and twisting in a mad celebration of their new little lives. Dog's tail wagged slowly and he trotted on. Under the gate he crawled and across the next field, ploughed and harrowed, to the stile where he paused, on his hind legs, paws on the top bar to look carefully around before leaping lightly over. Immediately he caught the scent of fresh meat. He had eaten well the day before but meat was meat and an opportunity not to be passed up, so he followed his nose along the hedge line. He could smell man everywhere, but this was a farm and so quite usual, and the scent of blood was much stronger. He paused beside the bole of an ash tree and looked carefully around. There was another lamb, newly dead, laying on the grass beside the ditch. He sniffed suspiciously, then a keening cry from overhead made him look up. A buzzard was tilting its wings to spiral down to the carcass. Dog wuffed quietly and watched the bird sheer off then walked cautiously forward to claim his prize. It was a very small lamb, only a few bites, but satisfying nonetheless. As he turned to go back along the hedge he lowered his head, applying his nose to the ground. The fox had passed earlier, at dawn perhaps, and there had been rabbits as well. The harsh smell of petrol and metal and rubber made him snort, he'd seen a vehicle pass along the hedge an hour before. He passed the stile and turned across the corner of the field, walking more slowly now, then stopped and stood with all four legs braced and his head hanging. Quickly Dog vomited the drugged meat but it was too late.

*

It did not take long for the farmer and his son and their guest to come down from their vantage point on the hill, lurching a little over the mole hills, Dave leaping out to open the gates as the immense four wheel drive eased through the narrow gaps. It drew up a few yards from where the dog lay and the driver cut the engine.

"You weren't kidding," he said. "That's the biggest dog I've ever seen. Thanks for calling me, mate."

"S'allright, Colin." The farmer followed him from the car and all three stood over the vast black mound of fur.

"Well?" the farmer continued, hopefully. "Is it worth anything to you?"

Colin stooped over the dog and carefully pushed it onto its side and ran expert hands over its limbs and body then turned back its lips to look at its teeth.

"Poor condition, despite all of your lambs, not a youngster either but I can get it back up to weight," he said confidently. "I wonder where it came from?"

"I've been thinking about that," the farmer's son said. "He must have turned up here about a month back, about the time a holidaymaker said she'd run over a black panther. Back in October there was that report in the paper about a black panther being seen near Lingen and before that, remember it was on the National news, about all those sighting in the Cotswolds. Maybe he's heading north!"

"Well, I can give it a lift, as far as Telford, anyway," Colin said with a grin. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a sizeable roll of notes held together with a rubber band and peeled off a few and passed them to the farmer.

"That's – that's very generous of you," the farmer said, eyes widening.

"Business is good," Colin replied with a shrug. "When water's pouring through your ceiling, you'll pay almost anything to have a plumber come and fix it. Now, help me lift the bugger into the cage. I don't want to suddenly find it looking over my shoulder on the Shrewsbury by-pass."

It took quite an effort to lift the animal up into the high boot of the 4x4 but they managed it and laid it in the sturdy wire cage. Colin tucked its paw inside and locked the boot, then went to the driver's door.

"Coming to the next meet?" he asked casually. "It's on the twentyfifth in Stafford. You know the Doxey industrial estate just off junction fourteen?"

"Twentyfifth? Sorry," the farmer shook his head, nodded at Colin's expressions of regret and watched him drive away.

"Bastard," Dave said as they walked across to close the gate.

"Language," his dad said automatically, he was still counting the notes. "This'll pay the vet's bill with a bit left over. Might get your Mum something nice, eh?"

"Yeah," the boy's angry eyes softened for a moment then narrowed as Colin reached the road and drove away with a blare of the horn and a waving hand. 

It was wrong, he thought. Of course they needed the money and Lord knew his Mum deserved something nice for once but – then he remembered a conversation he'd had at college. A conversation that had ended in a shouting match. A conversation with someone who would disapprove intensely of what they had done but, he suspected, was in a position to do something about it.

"Twentyfifth, Doxey industrial estate just off the M6, near Stafford," he whispered to himself. He'd make a call of his own at teatime.

*

One hundred and sixty miles away a man was just laying the last of his belongings in his carryall. Still moving haltingly, he turned to the stand beside his hospital bed and opened the drawer to remove the thick sheaf of letters and cards. He paused, holding them tightly between his hands, head bowed, then wrapped them in a clean paper bag bearing the 'Honeydukes' logo in flashing multicoloured script and placed them carefully in a side pocket of the carryall. If you had asked him a year ago if he thought he would ever be the object of so much affection he would have stared incredulously. However, in that pile of letters there were at least three marriage proposals plus no end of other less proper suggestions. He smiled. When he got home he'd have to show them to……No……. He zipped the bag with an angry movement, scowling ferociously at the inoffensive object then bent an angry glare on the door as it opened.

"Christ, Remus," the red-headed boy flinched. "I thought full moon was last week?"

"Sorry, Ron," his tired face eased back into a smile. "I was just – thinking."

"Yeah, it happens. Hey, you're looking good – well, better any way. All ready to go?"

"I'm packed," Remus replied, "but whether I'm ready to face the world again I can't say. I thought Harry was coming?"

Ron moved to the window and peered out at the grounds as though he'd never seen them before. Ron had visited him at least three times a week and had spent some of each visit staring out of the window whenever the conversation got onto dangerous ground or the pain grew too much for Remus to bear with grace.

"He's visiting Hermione," Ron said quietly after a moment or two.

"Ah," Remus limped across to him and put an arm around his shoulders. Dusk was falling fast but there was still enough light left to see the daffodils dipping and swooping in the breeze, clumped in great masses of gold beneath the bare but shapely limbs of the trees. Spring was here after a long cold winter and spring, Remus sincerely felt, was a time for renewed hope.

"She will recover," Remus assured him. "It was bad enough for the rest of us, the disorientation, not being sure who or what we were. The loss of magic! I mean, Harry was one of the first to get it back and even he couldn't so much as light a match for three weeks. Thank god we'd kept the medical staff well to the rear. Hermione relied on her brain so much more than the rest of us that she was bound to react badly. Then the were the other – things."

"Oh, Remus," Ron's voice was suddenly very husky. "when she does talk, she blames herself. It was her idea, you see. Dumbledore gave the orders but she was the one who planned it. I don't think she'll ever be able to look you in the eye again."

"She'll have to," Remus told him, "because I plan to see her myself again, as soon as I'm sure I can do it without making a total tit of myself like last time. She suffered as much in her own way as I did in mine, but it doesn't do a patient any good when their visitors go into spasms of hysterical pity every time they come into the room. As I know from experience. Much as I love your mother, Ron, I was so relieved when she spared herself the pain of coming to see me."

"You had every reason to be upset. Hermione was in an awful state and you weren't much better, in no condition for a bloody photo-call. It was a stupid decision on behalf of the new Minister and I haven't let him forget it. And as for Mum, actually," Ron's cheeks suddenly clashed with his hair, "I asked her not to. If you remember, at that point your eyes were still bandaged, so I told her that she had given you the impression that you were horribly scarred."

"That wasn't kind!"

"No, but it stopped her sitting sobbing over you, didn't it, so maybe I'll be forgiven," Ron said ruefully. "Ready now?"

"More than ready? How are we getting home?"

"Ministry driver. I'm still not up to Apparating and even Harry nearly splinched himself last week. So a nice leisurely drive in the country and …" he reached into the pocket of his robe and withdrew a rolled magazine, "something to read on the way. You made the cover, Mr Lupin, sir."

Remus unrolled the magazine – a Daily Prophet colour supplement – and found himself looking into his own amber eyes. The two dimensional Remus looked sombrely back through the sweeping fall of white streaked hair, mouth set in determined lines and yellow eyes blazing, side-lit, as the photographer had pointed out, to add a little drama and hide the remaining injuries.

"Spectacular, isn't it," Ron nodded to the photo. "I'd fancy you myself, if I swung that way, which I don't."

"This must explain the – er – letters I've been getting," Remus commented. "I'll read the article in the car. Have they managed to spell 'lycanthropy' right this time, or have they fallen back on the usual euphemisms -  ravening monsters, blood-crazed creatures of the night, bestial misfits in modern society?"

Ron snorted with laughter as he turned to pick up Remus' bag.

"I think you'll be pleasantly surprised," he grinned. "They've done you proud for once. All of you. Every single 'were' on the battleground that day is listed, with your name at the head of them all. I think – dammit – I know things will be better for your folk from now on." He paused twisting the handle of the bag in his powerful hands and looking at the set shoulders of his old teacher, his friend. "I think you might like to read the bit after that. Page twenty-two. They've done him proud as well."

Remus unrolled the magazine again and flipped over the pages stopping abruptly at a montage of photographs. He heaved a deep breath and smiled back at the face that was laughing up at him. 

"An obituary. It's official then."

"Not to Harry," Ron shook his head, "and not to me and not to – you'd be surprised how many."

Remus pressed his lips together firmly and closed the magazine. "The Daily Prophet has got its facts wrong before and, now I'm back on my feet, we'll prove it to be wrong again."

There was a moment or two of intense silence while Ron wondered what he should say. Should he carefully point out that the injuries that put him and Harry in hospital for two months and Remus, who's recovery was complicated by his regular transformations, for six would be unlikely to be survived by anyone without proper medical care? Or should he mention that if someone did not want to be found it might be for a good reason? Or that it might be better for everyone if things stayed as they were with Sirius being celebrated as a hero and no awkward questions asked? But on second thoughts he kept his opinions to himself and, instead, took Remus' elbow in a supporting grip.

"Come on then, grandad," he said, chancing his arm, "let's be going."

Remus gave him a look but accompanied him to the door.

"Yes," he agreed, with a smile that was verging on the smug, "let's get home. I've a lot of letters to answer."

**


	3. Chapter 2

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Two**

Dog awoke with a rush of adrenaline that brought him staggering to his feet, snarling. Scents of anger and aggression assaulted his nose. 'Fight or die' they told him and he glowered, looking for his enemy then cowered with a plaintive whine. 

He was trapped! Imprisoned!

High concrete walls surrounded him on three sides, more concrete was beneath his paws and ahead was wire stretched on a metal framework. An unfamiliar pressure tight around his throat told him that he was collared. He reared against the side of the enclosure, but there was more wire overhead and the wire door, when he tested it, was unyielding and hurt his battering paws. Panting with suppressed panic he made circuit after circuit of the enclosure until he was panting with thirst and turned to the two large bowls beside the door. One was full of fresh water and he drank thirstily, splashing the water across the floor. The other bowl contained raw meat but he did not even glance at it – there was a wrongness about it beyond its carrion stench that made it impossible for him to eat it. 

He licked the final drops of water from the bowl, sopped up the trickle that he had spilled then moved to the front of the cage. 

His cage was one of many in a large barn-like structure, high roofed, with stone walls and a few long narrow windows. Opposite him a brindled bitch met his eyes and bared her teeth, a black and white dog in the next cage along hurled itself at the bars eyeing him with an eager hunger, and their scent frightened him more than his confinement. They felt – wrong - like the meat in the bowl. They stank of rottenness and corruption. All dogs are territorial but for these two and others in the barn their territory was the world and all other creatures were enemies fit only to die. The bitch barked, setting off a chorus as they challenged the stranger in their midst and Dog rose to the challenge, barking back in a deep roar that nevertheless silenced them for only a moment. They raved in return, promising a bloody death, until a door opened and they turned away, yapping and whining, tails a-wag, to welcome their God.

Colin was already on his way to the barn when he heard the bark and he chuckled.

"That's a boy," he murmured as he opened the door, then he flicked on the lights and walked down between the cages. Some of the dogs leaped whining to the fronts of the cages, tongues lolling in their delight, while others cowered at the back, eyes white-edged and rolling. Either response warmed his heart, but he was more intent upon inspecting his latest acquisition. Skinny old thing under all that fur, he thought as he approached, but he had the best part of a month to get it up to weight. A bit of retriever in it, possibly, though crossed with what he couldn't imagine - soft-mouthed anyway, not the type he normally liked – and he gave the brindled bitch an affectionate look before turning to peer into the black dog's cage.

It was standing at the back of the kennel, eyes watchful. The water was gone, he was pleased to see and the empty bowl was within reach but, he cursed mildly, the bowl of dog meat had been nosed to the middle of the cage but was otherwise untouched.

"I suppose it was too much to expect that you'd been trained," he said as he took a small box with a dial and button from a hook beside the door.

"Easy, old lad," he said soothingly as he opened the cage door, leaving it ajar, and stepped inside. The dog was watching him intently but with no sign of fear and he smiled and stooped to retrieve the dish. Fast as thought, the dog darted past him towards the open door but his thumb was already on the button.

There was a loud buzzing from the dog's collar followed by a fizzing crack and it leaped into the air screaming. He pressed the button again and again and it collapsed twitching, flattening to the floor, eyes rolling and panting with terror.

Colin picked up both bowls and left, locking the door behind him. Later, when he returned bearing more water and a bowl full of mixed standard dog food and biscuit, he didn't enter the cage but slipped both bowls through the hatch. The dog had recovered enough to move and was sitting in the straw right at the back of the cage. One lip lifted to bare a fang but it flinched when he moved suddenly and Colin smiled. A clump of black fur on the floor puzzled him a little, so he stepped back from the cage and busied himself fondling the brindle bitch while keeping an eye on the new dog.

After a few moments, the smell of the food was too much for it and it moved from its straw bed to the bowl, sniffed suspiciously then began to eat as only a starving dog can. Black fur trailed from the claws of its left hind paw and Colin grinned. It had been trying to scratch the collar off.

"Clever bugger, aren't you," Colin said to it, and he resolved to be very careful.

Later that evening he rang his mate, Baz.

"Twenty-fifth," he said shortly, "and I think I've found our showpiece. – Yes, it's enormous, black as your hat and teeth like a timberwolf. -  How should I know? I haven't tried it out yet. – Yeah, right, there's only one way to find out. Come round Tuesday and we'll see."

Dog was left to his own devices for the next three days for which he was very grateful. He may not have remembered much, or understood much of what he did remember, but he knew about imprisonment and when to snarl and when to submit to his jailor. He behaved impeccably when Colin came to change his food and water, merely retreating to the back of the cage with a surly glare and made no more attempts to escape.

Then on the third evening, at a time when Colin would normally be feeding him, instead the man came carrying a long pole with a snap hook on the end. Dog growled softly and retreated as far as he could go but Colin was an expert and twisted the hook to fasten onto his collar. Another man entered the cage with another pole and did the same.

"He's bloody enormous," he said to Colin.

"Yes, he's big enough," Colin said, a trace of worry in his voice. "Come on, Baz, you pull, I'll push."

They tugged and pushed and chivvied Dog from his prison to a circular enclosure with high walls, shut the door on him then unhooked the poles from his collar. He stood for a moment, listening to their voices recede, then made a careful circuit of the walls. No way out, not for a dog. There was a solution to that, but he shied away from the thought and set his back to one of the walls and waited.

Before too long he heard the men coming back, the first two and many more of them, and knew immediately that there was some threat. Their voices were high and fast and he could smell the sharp reek of their excitement as they leaned over the high walls peering down at him in the pit. His hackles rose in an involuntary response and he moved away from the door. The door was opened a mere crack and another dog was thrust inside. An ugly, bow-legged, frog-mouthed beast it was already snarling before the pole was unhooked from its collar. Dog lowered his head and gave the warning 'don't mess with me' growl that was usually enough to put the most foolhardy dog off, but the other dog merely gave a squall of fury and leaped at his throat. He sprang aside, feeling teeth graze his shoulder. The other dog was a lot smaller but appallingly strong. Dog bounded out of its way, each time feeling teeth snap and draw blood. The men, leaning over the side of the pit were yelling encouragement and criticism, Colin as loud as the rest, his face scarlet with effort.

Dog was panting now but his opponent kept attacking, little eyes narrow with single-minded viciousness.

The man who had first come, who had helped Colin lead him to this awful place, howled with derision.

"He's not even trying, Col," he shouted. "Zap him and let the young dog make an end."

Colin was shaking his head with annoyance and lifted his hand, his thumb on the button of the little box, but took it off again as his black dog whirled in his own length and brought both forepaws down on the shoulders of its opponent.

"Wait," he shouted. "I think he's beginning to get the idea."

The young fighting dog was used to this situation. This was the fifth time it had been placed in the pit and matched against another dog and each time it had prevailed and felt the crunch of tissue between its jaws, the flow of blood in its throat. That the black dog was much bigger meant nothing, it would die and the young dog would feast upon its flesh. In contrast, Dog wanted nothing more than to get out of the enclosure alive. However, he now knew that the only way to do so was over the dead body of the other dog and while he did not want to fight at least his skills had been honed to perfection in sparring with a wolf.

Colin roared his glee as the black dog hunched its back and shot across the ring, bowling the other dog off its feet. It's huge jaws snapped once, there was a sharp yelp and it stood back leaving the smaller dog in a crumpled, broken-backed heap. The other men around the walls shouted and swore as they settled their bets and Colin slapped hands in celebration with Baz.

"It'll fight," he said.

"Think it could take Taylor's ban-dog?" Baz asked.

"Not a chance," Colin said, grinning, "but it'll be a hell of a show."

Dog looked up at the walls, at the blood on the floor and the celebrating men and stood shivering, waiting for them to come to put him back in his cell.

*

Auror Headquarters was situated within the Ministry complex but, as befitted the business carried out in it's grim offices and interrogation rooms, it had it's own well-monitored entrances and exits. Jason Fraser paused on the threshold of one of these and watched the recent visitor stride rapidly away across the broad marble paved entrance hall  towards his own department. Young Potter had healed well, he thought, and sighed for the so many others who hadn't. 

"What was _he_ doing here?" A harsh voice interrupted his reverie and he nodded to see his brother-in-law approaching.

"Same as last week, and the week before," Fraser replied.

Ken Norden made a disgusted noise. "Why can't he leave it alone?" he demanded. "We've got enough on our hands with chasing down the last of the Death Eaters as well as our normal low grade nastiness. Why can't he just accept that the bastard is dead – died in a ditch somewhere like the dog he was?"

Fraser made no reply but Norden looked sharply at him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Jase," he said more quietly. "I know you were close once but…well, all I can say is, if ever we find out what happened to Sirius Black…if he's still live somewhere…I only hope that I get to him before Potter does."

**


	4. Chapter 3

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Three**

Animals do not count and have no need of calendars but Dog was well aware when the twenty-fifth arrived. Colin smelled different, tense but excited. 

That morning Dog's food was laced with some of the sleeping draught again – not enough to knock him out but enough to make him sleepy and calm and uncoordinated. Colin led him out into a paved yard, tied him to a post and hosed him down. Then he groomed him roughly, getting all the snarls and tangles from his coat and checked his paws and teeth. Even now, in the late afternoon he was still feeling the effects and did not have the will to struggle when he was leashed and muzzled and led across to a large van and pushed into a cage in the back of it. Other dogs soon joined him, each in it's own cage, then the doors were slammed, leaving them in utter darkness and the van moved off.

They swayed and lurched, supported by the tight walls of the cages for what seemed like a very long time. Dog hung his head, feeling terribly sick, and whined his misery but others barked and barked, hysterical with excitement. By the time the van stopped they were hoarse with the barking but the drug had worn off and Dog was feeling a little better, though still very miserable. The doors opened. Colin climbed inside with three other men and they began to manhandle the cages out onto the brightly lit tarmac of an industrial complex. The sky was alight with the harsh yellow sodium lights of a large town and the air was heavy with fumes. Dog sneezed and crouched in his cage as it was lifted onto a trolley and he was wheeled into a large building. There was a high echoing room with a concrete floor and double swing doors with long looping handles at the far end. Along each side the cages were arrayed, the occupants alternately wagging their tails as the men and women stopped to admire them and snarling furiously at each other.

"Hi, Colin. What've you got there?" someone shouted and people came to look at Dog, pointing and laughing. Dog laid his nose on his paws and closed his eyes.

Other vehicles arrived and other cages were brought in, in ones and twos and soon Dog could make out the sound of many voices from a room beyond the double doors. The horrid shriek of a poorly adjusted microphone made him jump then a voice boomed out and two cages were wheeled out followed by the remaining sportsmen and the doors swung closed behind them. There was a pause, a long pause during which Dog shifted uneasily and even the other dogs fell quiet, and then the people roared. The noise was tremendous and almost drowned out the sound of guttural snarling and the shrill screams.

Dog, however, had fixed his attention upon the young man who had just stepped silently through the yard door. Dressed in a ratty old fleece and combat trousers, he pushed his blond dreadlocks out of his eyes with one hand and hefted a scaffolding pole in the other. He looked carefully around the room then darted across to slip the pole behind the handles of the double doors, effectively locking them. Quickly he turned and began to count the cages. Most of the other dogs flung themselves at the bars, wagging or slavering according to their nature, and he avoided them but he paused before Dog's cage and stooped for a closer look.

"You must be the one Dave rang me about," he said, his voice sharp with fury, and he offered the back of his hand to the bars.

His scent was as different from Colin's as fresh spring water from sump oil and Dog pressed towards the bars with an eager whine.

"You poor old sod," the young man whispered, reaching into the cage and gently rubbing his ears. "How the hell did you wind up here?"

He reached into his pocket and produced a mobile phone, pressed a button and spoke a few words, stroking Dog's head all the while.

"OK," he said, "I've locked the doors, they can't get out from here but what about the front? Great. Are the police on their way? What? Give me a minute for fuck's sake, I slashed all the bastards' tyres."

He switched the phone off then he gave Dog a final pat and withdrew his hand.

"Good luck," he whispered and left as silently as he had arrived.

The noise in the other room reached a crescendo then there was a rending crash, a few screams, yells and the sound of breaking glass. Dog whined as he scented blood then blue lights flashed at the window and an amplified voice began to shout. He lay his nose down on his paws again and listened for the young man's voice, but he didn't come back.

Later, men in navy blue clothing came into the room and looked at the cages. Some merely made notes but others went from cage to cage, discussing the inmates with worried looks on their faces.

"It's impossible," one of them said. "There's no way we can rehome these."

Another nodded sadly.

"The fighting dogs will have to be put down," he agreed, "they can't be saved. But some of these others look like family pets. Look, that collie, the lab, a couple of terriers and that – what the hell is that?"

"I don't know, sir," his subordinate replied, smiling as he carefully rubbed Dog's ears, "but it's wagging its tail."

*

Harry shrugged out of his robe and hung it on the rack in the hall.

"Hello," he called, "where is everyone?"

A soft, muffled reply came from the door to his right and he popped his head around the door.

Hermione, wrapped in a blanket was curled up on the couch watching the Muggle television news. She turned her head and smiled up at him.

"Hi. Good day?" she asked. 

He took her offered hand and squeezed it gently.

"Not so bad. The department runs itself, I'm just a figurehead, but that means I have the time to do the things I want to that nobody else cares about."

"Ah," Hermione nodded, withdrew her hand and looked away. 

Harry sighed and followed a very savoury smell through to the kitchen.

"Young Potter," Remus grinned at him. "I hope you're hungry, I started cooking and got a bit carried away."

"It smells wonderful," Harry lifted a pan lid and inhaled then coughed a little as the fumes caught his throat. "What the hell's that?"

"Sorry, that's my Wolfsbane simmering. Had a good day?"

Harry frowned at his friend and folded his arms.

"Why is everybody so interested in my day, all of a sudden? I did what I normally do – went to the Ministry, moved paper around, got fobbed off by some official, moved more paper around, had lunch with Ron, attended a meeting with some more officials, from Budapest this time though so at least they were polite, and…"

"Then you went back down to Auror headquarters and bothered Draco. Again."

Harry drew breath as though to deny it, then nodded a trifle sheepishly.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"He flooed me," Remus explained.

"And said what?"

"To summarise – 'tell Potter to stop bugging me, we're not at Hogwarts now, I'm doing my best, goddammit, and I'll let him know as soon as we find anything,' except, of course, with a nastier tone, more sarcasm and some very inventive swearing." Remus paused to lift a saucepan from the heat and turn down the gas. 

"It sounded quite reasonable to me, Harry," he continued in a lower tone and with a furtive glance towards the sitting room. "There are good professional reasons for Draco to want Sirius found and, besides, he owes him - and Malfoys are as obsessive about paying debts as they are about maintaining grudges. Let Draco do his job in his own way."

Harry let out a long breath.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "Two years ago, if I'd done what I did today, Draco would have hexed me six ways from Sunday. Today he just stood and listened with that infuriatingly superior look on his face, said "We're doing everything we can" and asked two of his men to see me off the premises – gently."  He took the bundle of cutlery that Remus handed him and began to lay the kitchen table. 

"How's she been?" he asked after a moment.

"Got up at three o'clock, read a bit, helped me do the vegetables. Had a little cry when she tried to make tea and the kettle wouldn't boil but it did get hot so there's some improvement." Remus smiled. "We played that game – Scrabble? She won."

"Naturally," Harry grinned. "Did you play the clean version or the rude version?"

"I'm shocked, Harry." Remus, with a heavy duty cook's knife in one hand and swathed in a blue and white striped apron, managed to look both feral and prim. "The clean version, of course."

Hermione smiled as she heard them both laugh. She hadn't heard Harry laugh in ages, she thought, but then she had only been out of St Mungo's for a week. The hospital authorities had been doubtful about the wisdom of a young witch discharging herself into the care of an equally young wizard, however celebrated, and an acknowledged werewolf but Hermione knew she had been right to trust them. Harry was rarely in the house, working late every evening, but when he was home he was a kind and undemanding companion and during the day she had Remus. Still convalescent, he had appointed himself chief cook and bottle washer, moonlighting, as necessary, as, friend, confidant and nursemaid. Whether his own affliction had made him particularly sympathetic to invalids or it was a natural facet of his personality she didn't know, but he had helped her to wash and dry her hair, had entertained and watched over her and had held her when she cried without ever betraying the slightest impatience. Hermione was more grateful for this than she knew how to express and was guiltily aware that sometimes she took his calm, good nature for granted. She only wished that she could do something to lift the sadness in his eyes and the worry from Harry's. 

She sighed and pulled the blanket more closely around her and watched the pictures on the television screen. Muggle television was so comforting. True there were disasters and atrocities but they were just caused by people being awful to other people, not the gut-wrenching evil faced in the magical world. People could be awful though. She grimaced at the report of the raid on a dog-fighting ring somewhere in the north. The men looked sullen and defiant but the poor dogs being carried and dragged to the RSPCA vans looked so bewildered and frightened. Then her blood ran cold. The huge black dog with the pale eyes, leashed and muzzled, disdained to fight the men coaxing him to jump into the van but looked equally confused and lost. Then he was gone and Hermione was left wondering if she had imagined it and, if so, why was she crying? Her sobs rose in volume as her grief and guilt and fear overcame her and Harry and Remus came dashing in from the kitchen and she clung to Remus, incoherent with sorrow. Harry, with a growl of annoyance, turned off the television and knelt at her feet.

"'Mione," he said, "Oh, 'Mione. What's wrong?"

But Hermione, hiding her face in Remus shoulder, was quite unable to answer.

**


	5. Black Dog chapter 4

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Four**

Dog liked the kennels. It was still a prison of sorts, of course, but the food was wholesome and plentiful and the young women who looked after him were usually more than willing to groom him and scratch his chest and rub his ears. They took him for walks as well and tried very hard to interest him in chasing a ball but gave up, laughing at his contemptuous look. However, they did find that he was happy to play tug-of-war with a loop of rope, mock-growling ferociously.

Then, one afternoon, Kirsty, his very own favourite girl, appeared at the door of his pen accompanied by another young woman.

"Well, we don't know quite what he is," she was laughing, "though we guessed part Pyrenean Mountain Dog, part Newfoundland, part curly coated retriever and part pit pony."

The other woman smiled and pushed her brown curls back from her face.

"He looks just the thing for me," she said. "There have been three burglaries in my road in the past four months. But there're a lot of kids, too. How's his temper?"

"Nine out of ten. He passed the bone test with flying colours," Kirsty looked proudly at her protégé. "He did growl at the vet, but if the vet had been doing to me what the vet was doing to him I'd have growled too. Shall we go inside?"  

Kirsty opened the gate and led the woman into the enclosure then turned to Dog and snapped her fingers.

"Come on, lazy," she cooed. "Come and say hello."

Dog stood up and shook the straw from his coat and ambled over to butt his head under Kirsty's hand.

"Oh, who's an old softy, then?" Kirsty said and rubbed his ears gently. "What do you think?"

Dog looked up at the woman and their eyes met. She was dressed neatly but cheaply in a straight skirt and sweater with a zipped jacket hanging loosely over them and her eyes were a warm golden brown, the colour echoed by the slightly frizzy curls of the hair most of which she had caught up behind her head with a slide. Her face was tired but she smiled down at him kindly. Then he caught her scent more fully and his ears perked. She was scared – it was obvious to his sensitive nose – not of him or Kirsty but of someone or something else. The worry and the need came off her in waves, tinged faintly with hope and he stepped forward and she met him halfway. He stood quietly while she ran her hands over his head and back.

"He likes his chest scratched," Kirsty said hopefully.

Dog leaned heavily against her leg and relaxed as she scratched him and she giggled.

"Oh, I think he'll do," she said. "Does he have a big bark?"

Kirsty giggled too.

"Does Big Ben have a big clapper? It's like the crack of doom. You'll take him, then?

Oh, I'm so glad. The big boys are always the hardest to find homes for and – well – we can only keep them for so long and we all love this one. He's a super old thing – not that he is old, of course, five or six, maybe." Kirsty paused while she stooped and clipped a lead to Dog's collar. "His condition's still a bit poor for the op so can you bring him back in about a month? Normally, it can be done while you wait but the vet will want to use a full general – he's too big a dog to chance a local and a whiff of gas."

"Is it really necessary?"

"Policy, I'm afraid. We neuter all dogs on rehoming, but you," and she patted Dog comfortingly, "you get to keep your family jewels for a few more weeks, lucky dog. Oh, the way he's looking at us!"

The woman laughed.

"It's almost as if he understands!"

*

Dog's new home was nothing special, a small stone terraced house in a street full of small stone terraced houses in a little town of small stone terraced houses set in a valley between high windy hills laced across their faces with dry-stone walls. The woman had loaded him into the back seat of her little green car and had driven carefully out of the city, concrete and glass giving way to fields and coppices, then turned off the main roads and onto narrower lanes. Eventually they entered the little town, threaded their way through the traffic in the main street and turned off into the even narrower streets of a residential area. She parked on the roadside and came round to open the passenger door, lean the seat forward and reach inside to clip Dog's new lead to his new collar.

"Out you come, then?" she said tugging gently and he climbed awkwardly through the small gap and out onto the pavement.

Immediately, he was surrounded by a gaggle of children with bikes, scooters and an elderly and very battered skateboard.

"Jeannie! Is that your new dog?" one demanded and the others chimed in with a chorus of questions.

"Is he safe?"

"Is he the one off the telly?"

"Aah, he's lovely, can I stroke him?"

"Can we help take him for walks?"

"Muuum! Jeannie's brought a bear home with her."

Jeannie laughed.

"No he's not a bear and let's find out whether he likes people before we start to play with him." Dog, who was standing behind her peering suspiciously at them, gave a sheepish wag of the tail and followed her thankfully into the house.

The front door opened directly into a long narrow sitting room with a flight of stairs opposite the door, but Jeannie led him through to the little kitchen. There she filled a bowl with water and another with dry dog food and put them on a mat in the corner.

"There you go," she said. Dog, who had been watching, tail waving eagerly, stepped forward and began to eat.

"I wonder what your name was?" Jeannie asked herself. "Sweep? Butch? Nero? No, no reaction." She sighed. "How about Fang? Rover? Blackie? Oh….no, false alarm. You're no help. Oy, Dog, I said….Dog?" For Dog's head had lifted and he was looking at her, ears raised.

"So… your name's Dog," Jeannie made a face. "Not desperately imaginative but I suppose it will do. There's a good boy."

She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table while he finished his food, then opened the back door.

"There you go," she said, "your garden. Try not to widdle on the flowers too much please and if I were you I'd stay away from Tib."

As narrow as the house, the garden was bounded by a high stone wall on one side and larch-lap panels on the other. Part of it was paved and part under grass with a few small flowering shrubs, there were a dozen flat plastic bags against the wall with tomato plants in them and a large grey cat was sunning itself on top of the water butt beside the little shed. Dog sniffed at the plants until Jeannie shooed him away from them, he avoided the cat who was staring at him in outrage, and then he ambled down onto the grass where he subsided with a groan and treated himself to a long and luxurious roll. In the meantime Jeannie cooked her own dinner, keeping an eye on Dog all the while. She ate it at the kitchen table, under his supervision, for he had come bounding back to scratch at the back door the moment he heard the clatter of cutlery, then she washed up and took her coffee through to the sitting room and curled up on the couch to watch television. Dog nudged her with his nose until she uncurled one leg and rested her foot on his shoulder.

"That's how I got you," she told him, nodding towards the local news. "They said the big dogs are hard to place and I wanted a really big dog." She rubbed her foot against his shoulder blades and laughed as he turned over, tongue lolling and eyes rolling back in his head in what she had already christened his 'demon-dog-from-hell' look.

"You're a lovely old thing but …" she sniffed and wrinkled her nose. "I think maybe I ought to…" She carefully avoided saying the word but got up and climbed the stairs to the bathroom where she half filled the bath with tepid water, added a little special dog shampoo then went to the top of the stairs. To her surprise, Dog was already standing looking up at her.

 "Here, Dog," she said, adding hopefully, "Don't make me come down and get you."

Dog ascended the stairs in a glad rush, darting past her and through the bathroom door and into the bathroom. He paused for a moment sniffing then sprang into the bath with an enormous splash.

Later, Jeannie with her hair wrapped in a towel – she had got so wet and doggy that she had had to have a shower herself – rang a friend.

"Yes, I got him this afternoon and I already need to redecorate the bathroom…… Dog…Yes, I know it's not the most exciting name in the world but its what he answers to. It can be his everyday name. Sundays and special occasions I'm going to call him Deefer…. Yeah, Deefer Dog!……I have no idea. He's jet black with the most gorgeous blue eyes you've ever seen. They said he was a combination of Pyrenean, Newfoundland, retriever and pit pony but I think he's part walrus!"

*

Remus and Harry sat eyeing each other tensely and Ron looked from one to the other of them in puzzlement.

"What…?" he began but Remus held up a hand and Harry made a fierce face.

"Sshh!" he hissed.

Ron scowled at them both until a melodious whistle announced that the kettle was successfully boiling and they both made a show of flopping back in their chairs with relief.

"What?" he said again. "She only went to make the tea – she didn't exactly have to trap it and tame it and bend it to her will, you know."

"Well, that's where you're wrong," Harry pointed out in hushed tones . "The kettle has been extremely uncooperative about boiling and poor Hermione has been getting very upset about it."

"But it sounds like we have success," Remus continued happily, "and also tea, which is never a bad thing. Put that box thing on Harry. 'Mione said she wanted to watch the weather forecast."

Harry snorted.

"A bit of seaweed is good enough for most people," he grumbled. "That bit by the back door has had a ninety per cent accuracy over the past six months."

"She says she can't understand its Norfolk accent. Put it on, Harry."

Harry picked up the little plastic box from the table, scowled at it, pressed the green button and the television lit up and began to whisper to them.

"Hey, cool," Ron grinned. "At least it's better than watching the wall paper. Not that you're ever here, nights, Remus. If what I hear is true?"

Harry laughed at Remus' suddenly shifty look.

"Everybody's favourite werewolf got a lot of letters in hospital," he told Ron in a stage whisper, "and has been replying to them – in person, if you know what I mean."

"Harry," Remus' eyes were modestly down cast, "you make it sound so sordid. I can honestly say that I have replied to every message of goodwill that I received, to do otherwise would be churlish. But, in some deserving cases, a – er – follow-up visit has been …" he paused gesturing as he fished for the appropriate words.

"Deeply satisfying?" Harry suggested.

Ron shook his head, his expression one of deep concern.

"To think I've looked up to you all these years," he said. "Well, all I can say is –  way to go, Lupin. Why doesn't anything like that ever happen to me?"

 Hermione carried the tea tray very carefully in from the kitchen and placed it on the table in front of Ron.

"Will you be mother?" she asked with a smile.

He laughed and leaned forward to pour while she curled up on the couch beside Remus.

"Thank you for dinner, Remus," she said, smiling, "though I'm astonished you had the energy. I loved those potatoes."

"Lily's mum used to do them like that," he replied. "She showed me how when I went to stay one time."

"Well, you can show my Mum how to do it," Ron laughed, looking up from the tray. "If you can't boil it or fry it she doesn't want to know. Hey, look at that! Harry, turn the sound up."

The sound blasted from the set and Hermione clapped her hands over her ears and Remus winced then leaned forward in his seat, eyes wide.

"…….sad story that broke last week has a possibility of a happy ending," the announcer was saying, "as the RSPCA reunite owners with stolen dogs rescued during a raid on a dog-fighting ring near Stafford." The picture of a man and two young children embracing a labrador changed to one of a uniformed man holding two small terriers.

"We want to find these little chaps' owners as quickly as possible," he was saying. "What would have happened to them if we hadn't had the tip off I dread to think and the larger dogs would have fared just as badly. Please take a look at these animals and if you recognise yours let us know." As he was speaking, the camera had been panning over a line of cages containing a collie, a pointer and an enormous black creature with blue eyes that was playing tug of war with a laughing kennel maid.

"I thought so," said Ron. "It was just a glimpse but that's – Harry, isn't that….?"

"The reason we were able to find this chap's owners so quickly," said the RSPCA man, patting the labrador, "is because he has been microchipped. This little device can be registered to your name and address and picked up by equipment used by vets, and animal shelters. The chip is easy and painless to insert and, once in situ, does not hurt the animal." An address and phone number began to scroll across the bottom of the screen and Harry snatched up a quill and wrote both down on his hand.

"Bloody hell," Remus' face was white. "A dog-fighting ring. Oh, Sirius." 

Hermione reached across to him and seized his hand and he squeezed it painfully, trying to control his breathing.

"I knew it," he was whispering, "but to see him, to see him like that. Oh, Hermione."

She didn't reply. Eyes wide, she was remembering that evening the previous week when she had imagined – dreamed – she had seen the same black dog and she hadn't told them. 

Ron was shaking his head in astonishment.

"And all this time I thought it was wishful thinking," he said. "Sorry Remus. Hey, but did you see that kennel maid? She was a bit of all right! Trust Sirius to find himself a bit of …. Where are you going?" he demanded, as Harry got up and made for the door. 

"Harry," Hermione released Remus hand and followed him across the room. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to Stafford," he replied, "to bust my godfather out of jail, but first," he grinned, "I'm getting him chipped."

*****


	6. Black Dog Chapter 5

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Five**

Jeannie lived a very simple life. Early every morning she would rise and wash and dress then come down to find Dog waiting at the foot of the stairs. She let him out into the garden while she made their breakfast and when that was eaten would laugh as he pointed out to her that his lead was still on the hook on the back door when it should be attached to his collar. That early walk was always quite a short one, just up the road to a scruffy area of grass and gravel with a dilapidated swing known locally as 'the rec'. There she would let him off the lead and play with him for a while. She had found that although he refused to 'fetch' as such, if she threw away the loop of rope that Kirsty had given her he would go and retrieve it in the hope that she would let him play tug-of-war again. It became a regular performance. She would say "What? This old thing? No, this is rubbish," and throw the rope as far as she could. Dog would rush to rescue it then it would be his turn to tease. "You threw it away," his demeanor seemed to say, "and you're not having it back unless…" and she would have to fight him for it. This way she managed to give him a fair amount of exercise without having to walk too far herself. Then it was time for work and she would put on her blue overalls and tuck her hair into a net and hurry off for her shift at the local electronics factory where she would spend five boring hours soldering nameless components to boards. It wasn't much of a job but it paid the bills and she enjoyed the casual camaraderie with the other workers. Dog would be shut in the kitchen with a blanket to lie on until Jeannie got home and took off her overalls and hairnet. They would have some lunch and then she would take him for a proper walk. Up the hill or down to the path along the river, they explored all the little town's lanes and by-ways and came to be quite well known amongst the other dog walkers who were very complimentary to Jeannie about Dog's good manners.

"If they only knew the real you," she liked to say to him severely. "The way you splash water all over my kitchen floor, and what you did to my slipper! You are awful." And Dog would cringe and look up at her sorrowfully until she relented and laughed. 

After the afternoon walk, Jeannie would fetch one of the boxes from the spare room and sit and fold leaflets and stuff envelopes and apply address labels for an hour or so, ready for the man to collect on Thursdays. The electronics factory bought the bread but by folding leaflets and addressing envelopes Jeannie could sometimes have jam on it as well. Dog would doze at her feet until teatime when he would accompany her to the kitchen and supervise her cooking activities, catching and disposing of any small items of food she might happen to drop. Then, after dinner, Jeannie would read or watch television with the back door propped open so Dog could come and go as he pleased. On the whole he was a very quiet beast, making little noise, so she was surprised one night to hear a wavering howl from the back garden. When she investigated, he was standing on her lawn staring up at the full moon. She patted him and invited him back inside and, after some persuasion, he followed her with his head low and tail tucked well under, the picture of utter dejection. This procedure was repeated every full moon but otherwise, the neighbours assured her they would hardly know he was there. Jeannie shook her head over his monthly misery and made an especial fuss over him on these nights.

"Got the black dog, have you?" she'd ask, stroking his silky ears sympathetically. "I know the feeling, mate."

On the whole, Dog was quite content with his new life, although he enjoyed those days most when for some reason Jeannie didn't go the work but stayed at home and kept him company. Jeannie, too, seemed to be content but Dog could still sense her unease. A loud car engine in the street would draw her to the window to peer anxiously through the curtains. She always allowed the machine to answer the phone, listening carefully to the voice of the caller before picking up the receiver herself. Her handbag lived on the shelf by the back door and there was a case in the back of the car that she only ever took out in order to air the sets of clothes inside before repacking and replacing it. Dog didn't care. When the phone rang he would give it a warning growl and if someone came to the door he would give a single shattering bark and accompany Jeannie to the threshold to fix his blue eyes balefully on the visitor until he felt Jeannie relax and welcome them. Then he would welcome them too and many a visitor left picking black fluff from trousers or skirt.

Only once was there a real break in their routine. One showery May morning, Jeannie put him in the car and took him to work with her and he spent an incredibly boring few hours laying on the back seat and chewing his blanket, then when she came out she took him out of the car and passed his lead to a cheerful-looking young man in an oil-stained boiler suit.

"I should be back by six o'clock," she said. "If you could just give him a good walk then shut him in the kitchen with some biscuits, it'd be great. Bye, Dog, be a good boy for Sam, now." She patted him and drove away.

Sam watched her go, his fingers lightly scratching through Dog's ruff, then took Dog for a five mile walk along the ridge tops. Dog had liked him from the first so behaved well, coming when called and even deigning to fetch a stick a time or two. They both enjoyed their walk, Dog knew, even though Sam didn't say as much. He was a quiet fellow, saying little until they got back to Jennie's house, which he opened with her spare key.

"In you go, old lad," he said as he opened the kitchen door. He filled Dog's bowl with biscuit, topped up the water and stood patting Dog's side while Dog leaned against his leg and picked the best bits out of the biscuit.

"You're a big fellow," Sam said quietly, "and I expect you could turn nasty if you needed to… I'm bloody glad that poor kid's got you."

When Jeannie came back that evening she was very quiet and her eyes were red. Dog greeted her with enthusiasm, almost knocking her down and was shocked to the core of his being when she shouted at him and smacked him with a rolled up newspaper. He crept away to hide under the kitchen table, completely confused as to why he had been punished and spent an extremely unhappy hour while Jeannie hung out washing and banged pots and pans around. Eventually she stopped and went to the phone and made quite a long call, her voice rising and rising with distress. Dog winced as she swore then sobbed. After a while she rang off and went upstairs to change. Dog remained where he was in the darkness beneath the table but, when the food was ready, Jeannie called him out and hugged him and fed him and everything was all right again.

Spring was over and summer came, bringing the usual mixture of glorious sun and torrential rain and Jeannie didn't leave Dog with Sam again though they sometimes saw him walking his own dog, Tag, a half-grown mongrel pup with orange eyebrows. In an excess of confidence, Tag tried to bully Dog - once. There was a flurry of movement, a sharp yelp and the pup was upside down with Dog's big paw on his throat.

"Dog!" Jeannie cried, "leave! Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry." And she pulled Dog away.

"Don't be," Sam said with a grin. "The little buggers need to learn from their elders and betters. There you are, Tag. Let that be a lesson to you." Tag was subdued for a few minutes but soon cheered up and Sam and Jeannie laughed as Dog endured the playful pup with much the same air of resigned tolerance he extended towards the local children.

Day succeeded day, all pretty much the same, and Dog grew sleek, his coat glossy and his eyes clear.

Then one Friday afternoon, just as Jeanne finished that day's box of leaflets, there came a knock at the door. They did their usual routine, eventually opening the door to a well but casually dressed middle-aged man who smiled politely at Jeannie.

"Here's my card, madam," he said, proffering a small rectangle of cardboard. "Atkinson and Nugent, antique dealers. My colleague and I are in your area today just to see if anyone has anything surplus to their requirements that they would be prepared to let us see. We also do valuations for insurance purposes. I don't suppose you would be at all interested?"

"I'm not sure," Jeannie frowned. "What sort of thing would you be interested in?"

"Furniture, bric-a-brac, jewellery, clocks and watches, old books and memorabilia. You'd be surprised what people collect these days." He smiled. "For instance, forgive me but I couldn't help noticing, there's a growing market for nineteen fifties ceramics, like that fruit bowl over there. Poole pottery, I'd guess, and I know a man in Hartlepool who'll take all I can get."

"It's not mine to sell," Jeannie said with just a trace of regret, "but I've a vase upstairs that is mine with a very similar pattern." She hesitated and the man smiled reassuringly.

"What have you got to lose?" he said. "Let me give you a valuation, at least, and if you decide not to sell – well, no harm done."

Jeannie glanced down at Dog who was sniffing at the hems of the man's well-cut slacks, then across the road to where a younger man in jeans was standing at Mrs Brimble's door and appeared to be exchanging some banknotes for an astonishingly ugly statuette. Mrs Brimble was beaming. She spotted Jeannie and waved.

"Well…," Jeannie hesitated then nodded.

"Fine," the man beamed. "Jim, over here."

"No, wait…" Jeannie began, alarmed, as the other man turned away from the door on the opposite side of the street and began to walk across the road.

"Jim is our ceramics expert," the first man explained, moving smoothly past her into the sitting room, "while I do the furniture and objets d'art."

"Hello," Jim smiled warmly as well. "What've we got then, Clive."

"Vase, nineteen fifties, possibly Poole," Clive replied.

"Oh," Jeannie blinked at them and closed the front door. "I'll go and fetch the vase then, shall I?"

They smiled expectantly and she turned and climbed the stairs. Jim was about to move further into the house when he heard a low grumble and saw Dog glaring at him.

"Trust you to pick a house with the bloody Hound of the Baskervilles," he said.

"Just a feeling," Clive replied. "Look, she works for Hatherley Electrics."

He nodded towards an overall that was drying on a radiator but Jim was smirking at the underwear that was drying beside it.

"Nice," he said. "So?"

"So, today's payday."

Dog did not like them. They smelled sly and furtive and cowardly to him but he could also sense that they did not mean to hurt Jeannie. So he kept them both corralled by the front door until Jeanne returned and then he sat protectively at her feet while they discussed the pottery. It wasn't Poole, Jim said, but a very pretty piece and he offered her fifteen pounds for it. Jeannie accepted with alacrity, then shyly produced a little box.

"This belonged to my grandmother," she said opening it and producing a little brooch.

Clive shot Jim a glance and pursed his lips thoughtfully, then reached for the brooch and took it gently.

"How very pretty," he murmured. "Let me see?" He glanced at Jeannie for permission and withdrew a jeweller's glass from his pocket and fitted it to his eye. He looked at the brooch for a moment or two then shook his head and rose to his feet and stepped across to the window. "Better light here," he explained. "Yes, very nice. It is gold of course. Look at the mark."

Jeannie stood at his side while he angled the back of the brooch into the weak sunlight and peered at the tiny markings.

"Yes?" she said, confused.

"Well, they tell me that this was made of nine carat gold in Birmingham in a nineteen – oh drat, I can't quite make it out – nineteen ten. I thought at first that these might be diamonds but I'm afraid they're only paste, good quality paste, though, and this stone is a garnet, rather than a ruby and these are freshwater pearls. But it is still a lovely piece. Are you interested in selling? The market is flooded with this early twentieth century stuff at the moment but I might be prepared to go to – oh, Christ."

There was a horrified shriek from the kitchen and Jeannie ran across the room and stopped at the door, staring. Jim was pinned to the back door, Dog's forepaws on his shoulder's and snarling teeth inches from his nose. On the draining board, Jeannie's handbag was laying up-ended with its contents scattered amongst the dishes but her purse and paypacket were clutched in one of Jim's hands.

"You bastard," she gasped and grabbed her bag, pushing everything back inside it and snatching her property from Jim's grasp.

"Call him off," Jim wavered. "Clive, help!"

But the front door banged open as Clive took to his heels.

"Leave," Jeannie shouted at Dog, seizing his collar and pulling him back. "Now, you. Get out!"

Jim needed no encouragement. He sprinted across the room and Dog gave a glad bark and wrenched his collar out of Jeannie's hand. He bounded at Jim's heels, snapping and snarling, all the way to where Clive was just fighting to get into his van, keys tangled in his pocket. Dog charged at him and snapped his teeth into the back of his stylish leather coat, just as he got the door open. Clive cried out with shock and struggled out of the coat, abandoning it to Dog who shook it thoroughly then went to the front of the van rearing high and placed both front paws on the windscreen. He dropped the coat and gave a series of barks, glaring through the glass at the two frightened faces within.

"Dog," Jeannie's voice was concerned. "Here boy, Dog!"

He darted aside as the two men managed to get the van moving and roared off, then he picked up his prize and returned with it to Jeannie.

"Oh, you good boy," she was gasping and grabbed his head and kissed him soundly between the ears. "Such a good dog. Let's see what you've got then."

Dog made her fight him for the coat but she got it away from him eventually and collapsed laughing on the floor.

The first item out of Clive's coat pocket was an envelope full of his, probably spurious, cards but this was followed in quick succession by several credit cards in different names, a cheque book in the name of Mrs M J Cartwright and a pension book belonging to a lady who lived a few houses down.

Jeanne shook her head in disgust at herself for having been so easily fooled and turned to the other pocket. The contents were similar, though there was also a small amount of cash in coins. As she fished them out, something sharp pricked her finger and she felt around the bottom of the pocket and withdrew a shard of gold set with a cracked red stone.

"Oh, no," she breathed and looked at the table where the box for her grandmother's brooch lay empty. The rest of it followed piece by piece. Whether Clive had broken it in his flight or Dog had caught it with his teeth she didn't know, but she could see that it was irreparable. Sadly she put the twisted strands of gold back into the box and placed them in the dresser drawer. Dog jumped up and pushed his head under her hand and she looked down at him with a rueful smile.

"Come on," she said. "It's time for tea."

Dog looked back at her, uneasily aware that she was no longer happy, and followed her into the kitchen.

Jeannie put a good face on her loss while she made her evening meal and watched Dog eat his, messily scattering the dry biscuit around the floor in his enthusiasm then carefully finding and consuming every last piece. She ate her own food silently then tried to settle in front of the television to watch a film but it didn't grip her, so she groomed Dog instead, working over his tangles with a comb until his coat lay glossy and smooth. He looked at her bright eyed, then shook himself until his fur was back in it's normal state of disorder and Jeannie found that she was able to laugh, after all.

"Oh, you dog, you," she said affectionately. "Go on, bed! I'm having an early night."

Dog shook himself again and went to the kitchen door, nosed it open and settled himself on his blanket in the corner. 

"Goodnight, Dog," Jeannie said, then a gap on the kitchen shelf caught her eye.

Earlier she had been too outraged about her handbag to look about her and so she had not noticed that anything else was missing. She knew she had brought it down to polish it because it was looking a little tarnished. Perhaps she had returned it to its place on her bedside table. Quickly she turned and ran upstairs to her bedroom. The silver photo frame with the picture of her parents was missing. It was the final straw. She covered her face with her hands and wept sadly and quietly for all she had lost, for youth and dreams and love betrayed.

She did not hear the stealthy movements on the stairs or see her bedroom door swing open so she jumped violently when a big black head was thrust into her arms.

Dog pushed at her, ears flat and eyes rolling, and whined, his tail beating a very small and appeasing tattoo on the carpet. Jeannie was upset and he was convinced that somehow it was his fault.

"Oh, Dog," Jeannie sobbed and buried her face in the thick fur of his neck. "What would I do without you?" she asked. "Thank God, you're here for me, 'cos I certainly don't have anyone else."

*

It was surprisingly busy in the Cauldron, despite the hour, and drinkers making their way to and from the bar kept buffeting Ron with their sleeves and elbows. 

I suppose it's not that surprising really, he thought. Almost everyone is back to normal now. It's no wonder they want to celebrate.

A burst of laughter from the other side of the room marked where a group of Aurors who had just come off shift were unwinding. Their numbers had been drastically reduced  in the great  battle and the few that had survived had been working double shifts ever since. 

Ron grimaced as another sleeve slapped the back of his head and turned to complain.

"Weasley," a cool voice greeted him. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

This was patently ridiculous as there was just too much of Ron and his hair was far too red to have missed. But he was presently reeling from the shock of an apology from those particular lips so he did not say anything other than a grudging greeting.

"Malfoy," he said and began to turn away but Malfoy slid smoothly into the seat Ron had been saving for his brother.

"May I join you?" he asked, making himself comfortable and setting his glass down with a decisive click. 

Ron eyed him with misgiving. The pale face was thinner than it had been, the fair hair shorter but the grey eyes were as wintry as ever, and the expression as aloof.  The navy blue of his Auror robes set off his fairness and the gold flashes on the collar indicated that his rise through the ranks had been meteoric.

"I see you've made Legate already," he commented. "Natural talent?"

Draco Malfoy smiled.

"More an assumption that 'it takes one to catch one'," he replied. "And you - I hear you have been coordinating the volunteers."

Ron nodded. 

"Job's about over now. Those first few weeks when everything broke down, it was chaos and we needed everyone who could wield a wand no matter who or what. But things are ticking over again and the volunteers are going home. The Yanks went last week and the Russians went on Sunday." He paused and grinned. "Somehow, I get the impression that the Aussies have no intention of leaving." 

"We owe them our thanks," Malfoy admitted, "so I suppose we can put up with the excessive bonhomie. So everything's back to normal, is it? Nine and a half months! The power drain was absolutely phenomenal. It must have gone somewhere. Was the extent of the fall out area ever established?" he asked, curiously. 

Ron shrugged. "You'd have better access to the figures than I have, Malfoy. Why are you asking?"

"Just something that occurred to me the other day." 

He paused, drank and chuckled. "How are things chez Potter? The Wolfman still going through those silly witches like a mad satyr?"

"He has had a lot of catching up to do," Ron smiled. "For most of his life they would have screamed the place down if he had even spoken to them but now …. Oh, come on, Malfoy. Wouldn't you?"

Fair brows lifted disdainfully but Draco's smirk wasn't quite as offensive as once it would have been.

"I understand that Potter has had something of a disappointment," he said. "How is he bearing up under the strain?"

"You heard about that? It was Sirius all right, but the woman who took him gave a false name and address. She was supposed to bring the dog back to the kennels for neutering but never – laugh away, Malfoy, laugh away."

"Sorry," Draco mopped his eyes with a pristine, monogrammed handkerchief. "Carry on, what happened next?"

Ron took a mouthful of beer, wondering why he was bothering.

"She never came back," he continued. "Harry's hopping mad and Remus – well, it's the first time I've ever seen him really let rip. There were hexes bouncing off the walls. Then Hermione threw a total wobbler and said that he didn't want to be found and why couldn't we just leave him alone. Harry had to sedate them both."

"Bet you're glad you don't live under that roof," Draco said slyly and took another sip of the thick sparkling amber liquid in his flat bottomed tumbler. 

"However," he continued, "it occurs to me that Hermione may have a point."

"What?" Ron scowled. "How can you say that? He's living as a dog, for god's sake! They might be going to neuter him," Ron's voice was appalled as he considered the prospect. "Didn't you hear about those obscene bastards who were going to make him fight?"

"Yes, I did and I thought that he had probably found his vocation. Black was always a fighter. They still quote him in Auror training, you know. The Black Principle, they call it. 'Instinct first, thought later when the smoke clears.' It works, too, nine times out of ten." He paused and sipped his drink again, the sparkles glinting on his lips for a moment before he licked them away. "Don't you see what's happening here? Hermione doesn't want him back at all, and you would have realised that if you had half an ounce of sense. You're only desperate to get him back because it's what Harry and Remus want, not because it's better for Sirius."

"What do you mean about Hermione? And what do you want, Malfoy?" Ron demanded, putting a world of loathing into the word.

Draco flushed.

"Ask her," he said, adding, "and as for what I want - I want him to be at peace. You weren't there," he continued, his voice suddenly very low, his lips drawn thin with revulsion. "You didn't see what he did, had to do, was forced to do. You didn't see what was done to him. I saw and I'll never forget it. Hermione knows and will never forgive herself. It might be better if he died as a dog than returned to face what's waiting for him as a man. "

"I don't believe I'm hearing this," Ron's face twisted with disgust. "He saved your life, Malfoy."

Draco drained his glass in one quick move.

"No," he said coolly, "he saved my soul and in the process may have lost his own. I'm getting another, do you want a refill?"

Ron shook his head and grimaced at Draco's empty glass.

"That stuff's lethal you know," he said. "It'll make you blind or drive you crazy."

"Funny," Draco stood up and smirked at him. "Father said exactly the same about playing with yourself. But you seem to be OK."

It was only later, after Bill had arrived and laughed at Ron's outrage and many more pints had been consumed, that it occurred to Ron that, in his own way, Malfoy had been trying to warn him of something.

*


	7. Black Dog Chapter 6

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Six**

Jeannie awoke in the small hours of the morning feeling dry mouthed and disoriented. She had cried for a long while, cried until her eyes were heavy, and then she had just rolled herself in her duvet, too exhausted to undress. Now she was awake and remembered that she had not cleaned her teeth or done any of the other things usually associated with bedtime and was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She rolled over and stretched, about to throw back the duvet and sit up, but paused as she heard a familiar rhythmic noise. She listened for a moment then smiled. Dog was snoring. He had fussed over her until she had stopped crying but she had felt too tired to make him go back down to the kitchen so she had shown him the rug at the foot of the bed and urged him to curl up on that. She had drifted off to sleep listening to his quiet movements as he scratched the rug into a suitably messy heap, turned round several times to flatten it out again then flopped down with a grunt.

"Night, Dog," she had whispered and had smiled as she heard a soft wuff in reply.

She sat up and went quietly across to the bathroom where she bathed her eyes and washed her face, then returned to her room and walked around the end of the bed to her chest of drawers to find a nightgown. The choice came down to a wisp of pale green silk, bought once on impulse when she thought that perhaps she might one day have someone to share it with, and a baggy t-shirt with a kitten on it. She touched the silk sadly then, grabbing the kitten, she shut the drawer and turned round to go back to bed. Instead she froze, unable for the moment to believe what she was seeing.

Dog was laying with his back to her, sprawled on his side, as he always was when deeply asleep, his paws twitching occasionally as he dreamed, yet there was another form occupying the same space. As she watched, Dog's image flickered and the other sharpened like a film coming into focus and her dog was gone. Instead of the familiar arrangement of black fur, she could see a tumble of black hair and dark fabric.

Jeannie covered her mouth with one hand, almost afraid to breathe for fear of waking him, and crept forward and knelt at his side. She had left the landing light on and, while her – guest? lay in shadow she could see him well enough. As she leaned forward to peer at his face, his human frame protested at the discomfort of laying on shoulder and hip and he turned onto his back, one outflung hand coming to rest beside her knee. Jeannie stared, appalled and fascinated. His face was masked by long, curling black hair and a beard, his skin was slightly olive in tone on both face and body for his torso was bared from throat to waist by clothing that hung loosely open from his shoulders and arms. The clothing had once been fine. A white linen shirt, now torn and singed and heavily stained about the collar and down the front, lay open, the buttons long since ripped away. Below the waist he wore breeches of an odd design with a buttoned flap instead of a fly and high, dark boots of some smooth scaly leather. The boots, while scuffed, were relatively intact but the breeches were torn, gaping open along the seam from right hip to knee.

Over all, he wore a strange long garment like a cross between a cloak and – Jeannie considered for a moment – a bathrobe, in a closely woven dark green fabric that was almost as damaged as his shirt. However, it wasn't the state of his clothing that made her catch her breath and tears spring to her eyes. 

The man was damaged too. Everywhere she looked she could see the traces of  injuries. The sparse hair on his chest was patched with the bare shiny skin of a healing burn and there was a similar scar across his jaw and cheek leaving a slash like a knife cut through the growth of his beard. His arms were striped with pale scars and there were more on his belly and his thigh. Jeannie drew a deep and rather shaky breath and carefully lifted the hand by her knee between her own. Long fingered and shapely, it lay lax in her grasp, the knuckles padded with scar tissue and a twisted seam where the smallest finger had once been. She remembered noticing the week before that Dog was missing a toe from his right forepaw.

"Oh, Dog," she breathed. "Who did this to you?"

She lay his hand back down and reached out to move the hair from his face, revealing strongly arching brows, a sweep of dark lashes that she would have killed for and a classically straight nose, marred at the tip by three parallel scratches, fresh ones, inflicted the previous day by the grey cat. As she removed her hand, he blinked then opened his eyes fully. The eyes that seemed so pale against Dog's black fur were a deeper more vivid colour against skin.

"Hello," she whispered and he smiled, a happy, carefree, mindless smile and closed his eyes. Again the picture flickered and suddenly the black dog was back, tail thumping a welcome.

*

Next morning, Jeannie watched Dog closely. He splashed his water across the floor as usual, flattened his ears in chagrin when told off and went outside to chase next door's cat.

On their walk he faced down the butcher's nasty Airedale and stood tied to a ring outside the Post Office, resigned to being mauled by Mrs Arkwright's toddler, while Mrs Arkwright chatted to Jeannie, who had gone inside to hand in the items taken from Clive's pockets.

"Where on earth did these come from, lovely?" asked Mr Johnson, behind the counter.

"I found them in the street," she explained. Mercifully there had been nobody about when Clive and Jim had made their getaway.

"Well, I never," he smiled. "Mrs Pearson was only in this morning worrying herself sick because she thought she might have dropped her pension book, She'll be really glad to get it back. But these others are a bit of a puzzle. They were all together, you say?"

"In the gutter just down from where I live," Jeannie confirmed. "Can't think how they got there."

"Pickpockets, I bet you," Mrs Arkwright said with relish.

"Well, I didn't see who dropped them," Jeannie told them with a shrug.

Outside, Mrs Arkwright smiled as Jeannie retrieved Dog from the child's leech like grip.

"Such a handsome beast, "She commented. "And so trustworthy. If only men were as faithful, eh?"

Jeannie gave a weak smile and headed home.

Later she stuffed envelopes while Dog lay at her feet chewing a bone, a 'thank you' present for saving her pay packet, and Jeannie frowned.

"I had the most peculiar dream last night," she told him. "I dreamed that you turned into the most beautiful man I'd ever seen, if a trifle grubby – every woman's dream, a man who's utterly loyal, protective and faithful and who looks like a cross between Lord Byron and Heathcliffe. Any ideas why that should be?"

Dog raised his head and cocked it to one side, letting his tongue loll in the facial expression that she had decided was his way of laughing.

Jeannie laughed, too.

"Oh, I do love you," she said. "I don't know which way you're better looking only those clothes are a disgrace! I'll leave a change out for you. Levis OK? Zip or button fly?"

She laughed again, at herself as much as at him, but when she went to bed she left the ancient pair of 501s she used for painting and a t-shirt on the kitchen table.

Two hours later, she was still unable to sleep. She was sure that she had had a very odd dream. Dogs did not change into men, or vice versa. If they did, she should tell someone, the government or somebody. However, she had probably been dreaming. She lay still for another few minutes, watching the figures on her alarm clock changing with annoyance. One a.m. and she had never felt less like sleep.

"Oh, this is stupid," she grumbled at last, got out of bed and slid her feet into her slippers. "There's only one way to settle this."

She crept downstairs, feeling extremely foolish, and into the kitchen. Dog was not on his blanket and she had a moment of panic before frowning and marching back into the sitting room.

"If you're on the couch," she promised, "I am taking you back for that operation!"

He was on the couch, head pillowed on folded arms, long legs doubled, so deeply asleep that he didn't stir even when Jeannie, stunned by the realisation that she had not been dreaming after all, ripped the remaining stitches through of the sprung seam on one shoulder of the green robe and eased it off the other arm. She drew the thick fabric away from him, tugging gently as it caught in the cushions and winced at the scoring on his back. Unable to resist, she extended a hand to stroke his hair away from his face again. Then she froze. This was her dog. He had lain at her feet, followed her around the house. Had she, could she, have done anything in front of the dog that she would feel desperately bad about doing in front of this – man? Hastily she ran through the past few weeks and couldn't come up with anything worse than nose-picking unless, she cringed, there was that day when she had been listening to the radio and a favourite piece of music came on and she had – danced to it. Or the day when, wanting a particular set of underwear, she had come down in a towel and dressed in the kitchen. But she remembered that on the first occasion Dog had joined in with the dancing, looking remarkably silly as he pounced at her feet and on the second he had probably – surely - been asleep anyway.

Gently she combed her fingers through the tangle of his hair.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Where did you come from?"

He sighed and his eyelids flickered and half opened and he turned his head to butt against her palm with a trusting innocence that was so at odds with his scarred face and body that tears came to her eyes.

Jeannie stroked his hair until he went back to sleep again then went to bed.

*

The jeans and t-shirt stayed on the kitchen table while Jeannie nagged Dog to change at least three times a day. The first morning he had watched anxiously as she washed the green garment and hung it to dry. When she sat down on Monday evening with a needle and thread he came and nosed the fabric, checking it over thoroughly.

"Yes, this is a bit of you," she told him. "I'm going to mend it now it's clean. Clean, remember that? If you take those other grubby things off I'll wash and mend those too."

Dog cocked his head at her and rolled over, paws in the air, as though he had never worn breeches and boots in his life.

Jeannie shook her head.

"That won't wash with me, buster," she growled. "Get that kit off and dress like a gentleman or – I'll take it off you myself, and that's a promise."

Over the next week Jeannie pursued a ruthless humanisation policy. During the day she left him to his own devices but at night she removed his water dish and left a jug and glass on the kitchen table instead. The clothing remained easily accessible and she drew his attention to them at least twice a day. She also removed the blanket from the kitchen floor each evening and left a pillow and the spare duvet folded on the end of the couch.

Sometimes the water disappeared from the jug, the pillow and duvet were frequently disarranged but the clean clothing remained undisturbed.

Late on Friday night she felt that drastic measures were called for. She made a few preparations then left Dog looking bemusedly at the bathroom sink, full of hot water, soap, scissors and a razor, a pile of towels and clean jeans and a t- shirt.

"There you go," she said as she closed the door in his face. "You stay in there until I hear some action."

Two hours later she was awoken from a doze by the sound of the shower starting. It ran for twentyfive minutes then stopped. After a silence the sink emptied and then, Jeannie punched the air in delight, the lavatory flushed. There was another silence, then a plaintive whine and the sound of scratching.

"Great," Jeannie muttered, remembering Dog's first experience of the bathroom. "His Lordship has finished so the skivvy can spend the rest of the night cleaning up his mess."

Nevertheless, she hurried up to open the door and Dog slunk out, head and tail both very low, and crept past her and down the stairs. He was damp rather than wet, smelled of soap and not much else and, she peered into the bathroom and gasped, he had even cleaned up after himself and folded all the damp towels and his torn shirt and breeches were in a hopeless tangle on top of the linen basket!

"Oh, Dog," Jeannie cried, suddenly feeling like a monster. She grabbed a dry towel and chased him into the kitchen where he had gone to ground under the table. Obviously either deeply ashamed or deeply offended, he refused to emerge so she crawled under the table after him and told him how proud she was of him, how pleased she was with him and generally what a wonderful person he was until his ears lifted and the tip of his tail deigned to wag. Then she rubbed his ears and face dry very carefully before fetching her hairdryer. 

"I'm sorry," she said, contritely, "but you should take better care of yourself, you know. I'm going to do that twice a week until you start doing it voluntarily because you're far too handsome to be neglected."

Dog hung his head, but by the time she had run the hairdryer over him a few times, causing his fur to fluff up enormously, they were both laughing again.

*

This is ridiculous behaviour for a man of your age, Remus told himself, somewhat tipsily, as he Apparated just outside the garden gate. His latest assignation, with one of the medi-witches who had cared for him so well in St Mungo's, had started out sensibly enough with a nice meal in Diagon Alley and a walk along the Embankment, but then she had suggested that he might like a night cap in the Cauldron, and he had been made incredibly welcome, last time nobody would speak to him apart from Tom. Then he had seen her home and she had invited him in for 'coffee'. He was beginning to recognise the particular inflexion that word could take on when a hot drink was the last thing he was likely to get. Strangely, though he had expected the interest in him to die down as the magazine article became old news, it had not done so and he was still receiving a steady stream of letters and invitations while werewolves in general were still getting a good press.

Now, here he was creeping up the garden path at three in the morning like a guilty teenager. And that's just what you are, he thought, a deeply sad case of arrested development. James and Sirius got all this sort of thing out of their systems before they were twenty. Then he smiled, for it was still very sweet and he knew he had to make the most of it before the inevitable backlash.

Moving silently, if a little unsteadily, he drifted up the path to the front door and fished in his pocket for his key and then stood for a moment, trying to remember the exact sequence in which he had to lift the defensive hexes before putting the key in the lock. They were probably no longer necessary but old habits died hard.

It was while he was standing, key in hand, that a quiet voice remarked, "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

Remus suppressed his instinctive reach for his wand for the voice was well known to him, if not exactly friendly.

"Mr. Malfoy, or rather Legate Malfoy, I should say," Remus turned very slowly and carefully, one did not take chances with an Auror. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

Draco stepped into the small patch of light cast by the porch lamp and eyed Remus' dishevelled appearance with amused exasperation.

"You look to me as though you've had about as much pleasure as you can stand," he said. "Lupin, you're a mess but I need to talk to you."

"Well, give me a moment and you can come inside."

Draco shook his head.

"I want to talk to you, not the rest of the ménage a trois. Come with me, I know where we can get some really strong coffee."

Remus raised his eyebrows warily but, since the word was missing the all important inflexion, he went.

Ten minutes later they were sitting in a transport café just off the M5 cradling thick white pottery mugs that contained a steaming liquid that Remus suspected was pure caffeine.

"Of all the places in the world I might have thought to see you, young Malfoy, this is about the last. How did you find it?" he asked, glancing nervously around at the few people who were eating the all-day breakfast, feeding the jukebox or sitting staring into a mug, much as he and Malfoy were doing.

"I'm an Auror," Draco replied. "I can find a place that sells coffee that will polish metal in any town in the land. The knowledge comes with the uniform and the desire to blow people to kingdom come. Why?"

"Oh, Sirius brought me here in nineteen – doesn't matter – he was an Auror then, too. He  thought I might like to "do a ton", I think the term was, on his bike. He stopped here when I started to hyperventilate."

"I'm not surprised, Black has that effect on most people. Now listen, White Fang….."

"White Fang?" Remus gave an incredulous whoop drawing the attention of some of the clientele who glared at them. "Mr Malfoy, I am surprised. As one who frequently feels the "call of the wild" I am quite a fan of Jack London but you….a student who flunked Muggle studies at OWLs level with record breaking low marks by failing to write anything other than 'it's all total bollocks' on his exam parchment…."

"Father bought me my own set of flaying knives for that," Draco interjected.

"Lovely," Remus eyed him with some alarm. "Well that rather proves my point and explains why I'm so surprised. Do I detect a sudden change of heart?"

 "No," Draco snapped acidly, "you detect three months spent in a shitty bedsit in Paddington watching crappy Muggle TV while I waited for my powers to come back so I could break the wards my late father, damn his eyes, set on Malfoy Manor. God, I could still whistle you every note of the theme tunes of all the major soaps. At my lowest I even watched the Australian ones as well, and believe me, Lupin, you can't get much lower than that without seriously considering razor blades in the bath. In comparison, children's television was positively intellectual. Now, drink that coffee and pay attention. Did Ron mention that he had seen me?"

"Yes, he did," Remus' smile faded and he leaned back against the torn vinyl of his seat and frowned at Draco, "and he told me what you were drinking. Ogden's and pixie dust'll kill you in the end. He told me what you said as well."

"Angry?" Draco asked.

"No, everyone is entitled to go to hell in their own way," Remus said in the infuriatingly patient way that made Draco want to slap him. "I don't agree with what you said though." 

"Neither do I," Draco's mouth twisted wryly. "I was wrong, Lupin. It is important that we find Sirius, find him as soon as possible."

Remus gaped. A Malfoy admitting that he was wrong?

"Why?" he asked after a moment.

"The power drain," Draco said as though it was self explanatory, then he shrugged. "All right, in words of one syllable for the terminally inebriated, at Voldemort's final dissolution, that's 'death' to you, Lupin, there was a cataclysmic power drain that affected witches and wizards over most of the country. We're back to normal now, most of us, but for weeks many of us couldn't even light our wands to read in bed. Werewolves were not affected, transformations as usual, though I suspect that, if you had been in any condition to do so, you would have found your wand as – useless as the rest of us." Draco scowled at the humiliating memory of such impotence. 

"Werewolves were not affected," he repeated, "but Animagi were. I've been doing some checking up and even Minerva MacGonagall wasn't able to transfigure until September."

"But Sirius changed right there on the battlefield," Remus said softly. "The witnesses saw him. He came back carrying Peter and dropped him across Voldemort's corpse, then he changed."

"That's rather the point," Draco said acidly. "He shouldn't have been able to summon the power to change." He paused and pushed his mug aside then leaned forward, meeting Remus eyes earnestly.  "Remus, I've been over that battlefield with a toothcomb, I've identified every discharge of magic on the place, but the one thing I can't find is that discharge when Sirius smashed Pettigrew's wand. The link between Voldemort and Pettigrew was so strong that when it earthed it should have left a crater a foot deep but there is nothing. Nothing at all."

"Power like that can't have just dissipated," Remus agreed, straightening in his seat and feeling much more sober. "If it had been over running water…"

"Well it wasn't was it? The drainage culvert was the closest thing to running water and that was two hundred yards away. So, if the power didn't go to earth and it certainly didn't dissipate it can only have gone to one place."

"Rubbish," Remus set his mug down with a bang. "Oh come on Malfoy, it would have blown his head off."

Draco, however was shaking his head.

"I saw my father absorb huge amounts of power from Voldemort, when he was old pasty face's blue-eyed boy, and towards the end Sirius was making him look like a beginner. And it might explain why Sirius was able to change – the dark lord's doomsday curse was designed to affect everybody else's power, not his own."

"So," Remus began cautiously, "there's a possibility that Sirius has a part of Voldemort's power and probably most of Peter's seething around in his skull. Good grief, Draco."

"Good doesn't come into it," Draco said solemnly. "We have to find him because we need to find out who's in control. Sirius Black, Wormtail or …"

"Voldemort," Remus finished and dropped his face into his hands. "Oh, Draco, doesn't it ever end?"

"Not for us, apparently. But Remus, if you ever find out who's getting all the good luck, tell me where he lives so I can go round and hex his cat."  

**


	8. Black Dog Chapter 7

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Seven**

Jeannie was so proud of Dog. Now she had laid down the law he seemed quite eager to comply, though rather shy about letting her catch him in human form. By day he was pure unadulterated Dog, rolling in the yard, barking at unusual noises and pursuing next-door's cat with gusto. If cornered, the cat would turn on Dog and Jeannie loved to see how Dog would suddenly develop an interest in something else, having learned the hard way that those claws were sharp. It was only at night or when he was sure he would not be disturbed that he made the change into his human form. 

She had made a trip to the local charity shop and had bought some more jeans and a couple of shirts and he changed his clothes regularly, depositing the worn ones carefully in her linen basket. When she awoke in the morning there was often a damp towel in the bathroom that had been dry when she went to bed, but Jeannie rarely saw him. On a couple of occasions she caught a glimpse of him reflected in some shiny surface as she entered a room only to find Dog grinning up at her when she turned the corner and twice saw the flickering as Dog's form faded and the man's began to appear but found that as soon as she moved Dog would return. Only on one night did she spot him for any length of time and that was only because she was still. 

Falling asleep in her chair while watching a late night film, Jeannie had awoken just before dawn. The television was still on, the blue light flickering on the ceiling but Jeannie was transfixed by the sight of the man who was moving slowly and rhythmically in the small space at the foot of the stairs. Barefoot and bare-chested he was carefully going through a routine of movements, balance moving from foot to foot, from toe to heel, arms extending, hands making gentle and peculiarly beautiful gestures, in a silent and unutterably lovely dance. Clean-shaven now, his face was intent but relaxed, eyes half closed and lips curved in an unconscious smile. Jeannie sighed as his movements speeded, each one sure and controlled, betraying a perfection of coordination and strength. Finally he arched his body back, palms of his hands touching the floor, and whipped his legs up into a handstand, his hair tumbling down around his arms, the longest strands almost touching the floor. He remained poised for several moments then pushed off with his arms, twisted in the air and landed once again on his feet. Jeannie must have gasped or maybe a movement caught his eye because he whipped around, hands raised defensively. 

"That was beautiful," Jeannie spoke very softly. "What was it?"

His face twitched in panic and he stooped, his height contracting and darkening, and Dog reappeared, and approached, tail waving very slowly, to lay his head on her knee. Jeannie felt the disappointment of this quite keenly and wondered why Dog should be so affectionate when the man seemed to be so wary.

Dog was almost as confused as she was. He was gradually finding the will to transform more accessible. The turning point for him had been the night she shut him in the bathroom. Up until then, turning from the comforting, undemanding and, above all, safe shape of the dog had been associated in his mind with the pain of grief and loss and a cowardly little voice had urged him to hide, hide in the warm darkness of black fur where no one would suspect, no one could accuse. But shut in and abandoned, he had paced and whined and decided to once again appease his jailer. Initially, hands unused to manipulation had laboured over turning taps and managing buttons and laces but then he began to remember things, the gush of warm water, the pleasant feel of clean fabric against clean skin. With memory had come shame at the dirt in his hair and beard, the grime beneath his nails. And, ashamed, even when clean he had hidden from Jeannie but she had followed him and made much of him and he had basked in the warmth of her approval. Now, to please Jeannie was his one intent and so he changed his clothes and washed his face and body and painfully scraped the razor over his jaws. The face that looked back at him from the mirror in the depths of the night or the pale grey of early morning was not one he recognised. There had been a man, once, with the same blue eyes and black hair but he was long dead and Dog could not even remember his name but did remember, as though in a dream, that he had once been accounted handsome and hoped that Jeannie would approve. For Jeannie was the centre of his whole existence, without her he was nothing but a stray. 

At night, while Jeannie slept, he roamed the house on four legs or two. As a dog, the runs he took with Jeannie were enough to satisfy his need for activity but as a man he was tense and nervous and one night found himself moving in a particular way that eased his nervousness and left his muscles aching pleasantly. He repeated the series of movements like a mantra, speeding them and refining them and feeling his body strengthen and grow more supple over the weeks. The night Jeannie watched him was another watershed. Until then he had tried to please her as a good dog should, by being clean and well behaved. But when he had turned and seen her face it had been quite obvious that she was very pleased with him merely for being; that she was enjoying looking at him. He had become the dog again and she had been disappointed so perhaps it was a good thing to be pleased by looking at one for whom you cared. The next night while she slept, he crept upstairs on four paws and paused at her door. She was asleep, curled on her side, one arm doubled under her head. Dog sat and watched her for a while, watched the shadows of dreams chase themselves across her face, until she sighed and turned onto her other side. Then he went back downstairs to his blanket.

He climbed the stairs frequently after that, sometimes even advancing as far as her bedside to breathe in her scent and assure himself that she was happy and in no distress, always returning to his blanket as soon as he was sure that she was all right. But one night he left the bathroom in human form, rubbing the water from his hair with a towel, and stopped on her threshold, folding the towel around his neck and leaning against the doorjamb. Jeannie was curled up as usual but as he watched, she moved restlessly and turned her head on the pillow. The sound she made was almost too soft to hear but it was sad and Dog moved forward without thought. He dropped to his knees at her bedside and touched her cheek gently with his maimed hand, then gathered her shoulders into his other arm.

"Ssh," he whispered, the human sound coming harsh and aching from long unused vocal chords. "Ssh now, Jeannie."

Jeannie sobbed again and leaned into his embrace, her arms encircling his chest, her hands clutching at the muscle of his shoulders and he bent his head to brush his lips across her forehead. Her mouth rose blindly to meet his and Dog gave a sigh of pleasure at the touch of her lips against his own, tightening his arm around her and trailing his fingertips across her cheek and down her throat. Jeannie sighed as well, then her eyes opened and she gave a frightened gasp, pulling away.

Dog released her, jerking back from her wide eyed gaze, and cringed. Jeannie had the barest glimpse of his horrified expression before the black dog turned tail and raced from the room. Jeannie, eyes half open, shook her head and lay back on her pillows. "I must have been dreaming," she murmured to herself as she sank back into sleep.

Dog transformed briefly in the kitchen, wrenched open the kitchen door, stepped outside, closed it again and stood looking up at the sky. A cold rain was in the air, chilling the sudden inexplicable heat in his blood, the drops trickling down his face like icy fingers. When he had touched her he had wanted – he wasn't sure what, but he had wanted it very badly. She had been so soft and warm. He had wanted to hold her like that forever to make all the bad dreams go away. And she had felt so good. Her lips under his had lit a fire that was still burning him and something in him had laughed, pointed out how vulnerable she was, had urged him to grip and crush and take. She had opened her eyes and had been afraid of him and that something had exulted  – this must be bad. Shut out in the garden, he couldn't be a threat to her, so he stood in the rain until his breathing steadied and he began to shiver, then took refuge with the dog once more and curled up, nose on paws, on the doorstep. After a while he slept but a small part of his mind kept going over how she had looked when she slept and how her mouth had felt against his.

Jeannie was horrified when she realised that Dog had spent the night in the garden. He had whined plaintively in response to her rather panicky calls and she rushed to the door to let him in.

"There you are," she cried as he slunk past her into the kitchen and went to sit on his blanket. "How did you get out there, you silly thing?"

Dog sneezed and lay down.

"Oh, Dog," Jeannie took the threadbare towel she kept for his use, and knelt beside him. 

"Come here," she coaxed and began to rub the rain out of his fur. "I suppose this is about – last night. Did you – did you really come into my room? Please, Dog, I'm not angry with you. Please, look at me."

Dog didn't raise his head but his tail gave the smallest of wags.

"Maybe I'm the one who should apologise," Jeannie mused. "After all, all you were doing was giving me a hug because I was having a nightmare, I'm the one who started – well – you know. I'm sorry."

Dog raised his head at that and Jeannie rested her cheek momentarily between his ears.

"I'm sorry, Dog," she whispered. "Do you forgive me?"

Dog butted her playfully with his head and gave a low wuff. Clearly he did.

But Dog could not forgive himself. The protective love he felt for Jeannie as a dog was safe for her. He could do her no harm. But in his other shape the urge to protect was overlaid by other conflicting and confusing impulses that sparked dim but frightening memories – memories that filled him with horror and shame. From that morning he took care not to approach her in human form or to climb the stairs to the bathroom when she was asleep, afraid of what the beast that was within him might do.

*

As the spring gave way to summer and the evenings grew lighter, Remus and Hermione got into the habit of setting the dinner table in the garden on any night that was fine enough. High hedges screened them from Muggle neighbours and their position on a hillside gave them the best of the evening sunlight, so Remus would carry out the pine table from the kitchen and they would settle down to wait for Harry, sometimes with a bottle of wine, sometimes as tonight, with books and papers to while away the time. 

The garden had barely been touched since Harry had bought the house and it's rather scruffy shrubs and tussocky lawns were a far cry from the manically manicured plot at Privet Drive. Remus remembered that sad place as he had last seen it, blackened and roofless, lit only by the greenish glare of the floating skull. For Harry to have used the money from the insurance claim to buy their present haven may have seemed a little macabre, but Harry was nothing if not practical. One way or another, the Dursleys had owed Harry for their years of neglect and abuse. Death at the wands of Voldemort's minions may have been a high price to pay but none of his friends could see why Harry shouldn't benefit. Besides he had needed a proper home to bring Hermione to, and the three of them had settled down together very happily. In many ways the place was ideal. In it's own small grounds, they were not overlooked, there were many rooms with fireplaces suitable for the Floo network and it was blessed, from Remus point of view, with a sound dry cellar with a solid, lockable door.  Remus was aware that he was, to some extent, a chaperone for Hermione and, to another extent, a substitute for Sirius, but felt no sense of being a charity case. His earnings supplemented the 'family's' income, he did his fair share of the housework and he had more than earned his right to consider this place his home by his unstinting care of Hermione. At first she had clung to him like a frightened toddler but now was beginning to strike out alone. It warmed his heart to see her growing in confidence and enthusiasm though he suspected that never again would she be as self-assured as she had been at Hogwarts and in the years immediately following. However, she could laugh and smile again and, though still chary of leaving the house on her own, would often accompany him on his trips to shop for food or to the Regio Occultus at the British Museum. The Museum had jumped at the chance of employing Remus, his credentials as a translator of Ancient Runes were impeccable, and made no objection to him working from home when Hermione was in no state to be left for any length of time. Later they had been pleased to employ her as his assistant and he put down much of the rapidity of her improvement after that to the simple fact that a monthly salary showed how much she was valued in a way that the most earnest reassurances from Harry or Ron or Remus were unable to. She was good, too, he thought as he poured the wine and leaned back in his chair, studying her profile at she turned a page and reached for her glass.

Hermione caught his eye and smiled.

"Are you off out tonight?" she asked.

Remus shook his head.

"Selene is on late shift," he explained, "and doesn't get off 'til ten. She'll be over as usual after the full moon to patch me up and we've made a – er – date for Thursday."

"She's a nice witch," Hermione commented. "Are you taking her anywhere special?"

"Zelda Cook has sent me tickets for her summer exhibition preview," Remus held up his glass to the sky and peered into the rich redness. "Fifty paintings all done in "shades of blood and ash". It sounds a little oppressive to me but Selene said I ought to go to show some lycanthropic solidarity. I said that, OK Zelda's a werewolf, but would it hurt to use green or yellow once in a while?"

Hermione smiled again. It was nice to see Remus looking so well. When they had first met he had looked old and tired. Now, eight years later, he looked younger than he had that day on the Hogwarts Express. His brown hair was streaked with white now, rather than drab and greyish, his face was a little fuller, less cadaverous and his eyes, though at times shadowed with pain, were clear and calm and wise. Hermione had always imagined Remus as a self-contained loner with all his attention focussed on Sirius, Harry, Dumbledore and his few other friends. It had come as something of a shock to discover his keen pleasure in partying now that his lycanthropy was no longer such an issue. 

"I'll probably go though," he was continuing, "if Harry's going to be here, of course."

"I don't need Harry to babysit," Hermione protested. "I can take care of myself…."

 "What?" Harry was just coming through the kitchen door, a bottle of mead in one hand and a glass in the other. "You don't mean to say you'd sooner spend an evening alone than with me?"

Hermione laughed and shook her head.

"Of course not, but if you're working a bit late I don't see why Remus and Selene should miss their fun."

"Zelda Cook's exhibition launch fun! There's a novel thought," Remus mused as he set his wine glass on the table and stood up. "Now Harry has graced us with his presence we can eat. Ten minutes, all right?"

"Fine," Harry threw himself into the deck chair Remus had just vacated and sighed as he poured his mead.

"Hard day?" Hermione asked.

"Just tiring," he replied. "It looks like the reforms to the Magical Beasts Act will go through – assuming the werewolf community accept the necessity for self-regulation – but the free countrywide provision of Wolfsbane Potion is assured."

"That will make life so much better for the vagrants," Hermione agreed. "Have you seen Ron today?"

"Yes," Harry beamed, "and he was with me when Draco brought me some good news. They still can't be civil to each other, you know, even after everything."

"I can imagine," Hermione smiled.

"It was almost like old times," Harry chuckled. " 'Malfoy'. 'Weasley'." His impersonations were accurate and filled with mutual loathing.

"What was Draco's news then?" Hermione asked.

"Oh, now that was interesting," Harry set the mead bottle down in the grass and took a sip from his glass. "I was going to tell you both over dinner any way. You know that the Experimental Charms bods have been working on a detector for magical signatures? Well Draco called in a few favours and took a prototype up to that kennels in Stafford.  I gave him my knife, remember the locating charm Sirius put on it for me, and he used that as the control and has found a trace, a very faint trace, that more or less confirms that Sirius is still carrying his wand. Now all we have to do is find some way of amplifying the trace and we might be able to find him."

Hermione looked down into her glass.

"Wouldn't you have to be very close to him to pick it up?" she asked.

Harry shrugged and grinned at her. 

"Ever practical, eh, 'Mione? Yes, we would but it's got to be worth a try." He paused and sighed. "We've got to try, Hermione. Who knows what could be happening to him."                                                                                                                                                                                                                 

"Harry," Hermione twirled her glass between her fingers, watching the red swirl up and up the sides. "Are you sure about this? It's been almost a year. Are you sure – sure he wants to be found?"

"Hermione," his voice was very gentle but firm, "we have no choice. We have to find him. We have to bring him back. We have to find out what happened to him."

"And then?" she asked, her voice rising. "What then? Will he come back here? After what he did to Remus? After what he did to – to all those people?"

"Oh, Hermione," Harry's voice almost broke as he left his chair and came to kneel at her side. "You're not still having those bad dreams, are you? Remus forgave him long ago – what am I saying? Remus never felt there was anything to forgive. What happened was horrible but necessary. That whole werewolf business fooled Voldemort completely." He took her hand, holding it against his cheek. "There were bound to be casualties," he paused remembering, "but the ones who died were as committed to the cause as we were. It was a brilliant plan, Hermione, and it worked perfectly. There were some we just couldn't save but we can save Sirius."

"You don't understand, do you?" Hermione tugged her hand out of his and stared at him. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this but, I'm telling you, Harry, if you bring that man to this house I will not be here."

It was Harry's turn to stare.

"I don't understand, you used to love him as much as I do, as Remus does. Hermione, where else would he go?"

"Azkaban?" she suggested, wildly.

Harry drew sharply back from her, his face twisted with shock and the beginnings of anger.

"Hermione," he breathed, "I don't know how you can say that. Never, never say that where Remus can hear you. Sirius did some – truly terrible things but you can't think it was of his own free will!"

"No?" Hermione stood up and glared down at him. "What about the Creevey brothers? Or are you saying that they were lying? What about Remus?"

"Remus?" Harry's eyes were suddenly wary.

"Last week when you were both out," Hermione said defiantly, "I had a very informative hour in your office going through the witness statements. Alohomora, Harry. Or did you think I was still incapable? Remus wouldn't have lied, not to you, and yet you still want that – that monster here in this house?"

"That monster," Harry snapped coming to his feet so abruptly that she flinched back from him, "is the only reason that most of us are still alive. You understand that, I know. It was your plan he was following, for God's sake!" He glanced nervously towards the kitchen where the clattering of plates and a cheerful curse from Remus warned that dinner was almost ready. "Look, Hermione, now is not the time to discuss this. After dinner we'll give Remus the slip and, if you like, I'll go through those statements with you. Believe me, Hermione, much of it isn't as bad as it sounds. Let's have our meal and later we can talk about it rationally."

"Perhaps I don't want to be rational," she spat. "Perhaps the thought of setting eyes on him again turns my stomach."

Harry met her angry glare with a cold and implacable look that she had come to know and admire during those darkest of days. The look with which he had sent so many to almost certain death. The look that had been on his face when, his arms about the shoulders of a shaking and hysterical Draco Malfoy, he had said, "That's what we needed to know, we attack tonight."

"That's enough," he said. "When I find my godfather of course he will be welcome in my home. You suffered as much as any of us, Hermione, but you have no right to try to make me choose between you."

She took a step away from him, fists clenched, then her gaze wavered and her shoulders slumped.

"No," she replied, dully. "You will do what has to be done. You always do." She turned away and began to walk back towards the house ignoring his worried call but paused on the threshold, squaring her shoulders and turned back to face him.

"If – he has his wand," she said, "sooner or later he will use it. If you're serious about finding him ask Ollivander to recategorise his wand as belonging to an under-age wizard."

Harry's angry expression faded.

"Of course, if he uses it anywhere other than Hogwarts the Ministry detectors will pick it up. Hermione, you're brilliant."

"Brilliant," she agreed and stepped into the kitchen, passing Remus as he stood with their plates balanced along one forearm. 

"Hey," he called, "it's almost ready." But Hermione didn't reply.

**


	9. Black Dog Chapter 8

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Eight**

Days passed and as the weather brightened so did Jeannie's spirits. Getting up in the morning was no effort when the sun shone and the birds sang and there was a dark, handsome someone waiting to greet her with a flash of white teeth and a furiously wagging tail. Of course, a proper smile, a proffered hand and a softly spoken "Good morning, Jeannie," would have been better still but Dog the man was still extremely shy.

One day she was especially happy, singing quietly to herself as she clipped Dog's lead to his collar then breaking into a jog as she led him up the road for their regular tug of war session on the 'rec'. Dog trotted beside her, tail waving like a banner, and shook his loop of rope with a mock growl.

"There's a big, brave boy," she laughed. "You show it who's boss!" 

They played for half an hour, only stopping when Dog, in an excess of enthusiasm, bowled her over.

"Bully," she said, sitting up and tugging his ears. "Hey, want to know a secret?"

Dog indicated with a tilt of his head that he did, and Jeannie slung her arm around his neck and lifted one floppy ear.

"Today's July the twenty fifth. It's my birthday," she whispered. "Shall we have a party? Just you and me?"

She laughed again for she had been joking and took him home. In a spirit of mischief, when she put out a clean pair of denims she added one of her own favourite tee shirts, a stretchy sleeveless black one with "100% Pure" on the front in silver glitter, thinking that Dog would be in party gear whether he knew it or not. Then she put on her overalls and hairnet and went to work. 

When Jeannie came home at lunchtime, it was with two carrier bags bulging with food, a sheaf of cards from her friends at work and a large smile that faded as Mrs Arkwright hailed her.

"Jeannie," she called from her doorstep. "I don't want to worry you, but you know that dog of yours…well, I think you must have left the door open, dear. He was trotting up the road an hour or two ago. I tried to catch him but…"

Jeannie made hasty thanks and hurried to her door, transferring both bags into one hand and fumbling for her keys. As she pushed the key into the lock the door swung open and she tumbled inside.

"Dog, Dog," she called then stopped, sniffing suspiciously. From the kitchen was wafting an appetising smell. "Dog?" she repeated and kicked the door shut behind her before walking across to the kitchen. On the threshold she stopped and smiled. There were flowers on the kitchen table. A lot of flowers. Some were rather squashed and damp, and they had been arranged by the simple method of cramming them into vases, but she was touched all the same. She put the bags down by the sink and grinned at the oven where a frozen pizza was just beginning to bubble.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are?" she called.

It was no more than a breath, the softest of whispers in a broken and husky voice, but she clearly heard the words "Happy Birthday, Jeannie," before she whirled around and saw Dog, who had been hiding behind the kitchen door, wagging his tail and laughing at her surprised expression.

It was a happy afternoon. In honour of the day, Jeannie allowed herself a rest from her endless stuffing of envelopes, and after they had eaten took Dog on an especially long walk. They climbed the hill behind the rows of houses and passed the cemetery where Dog had the grace to look the least bit guilty (Jeannie had carefully ignored the card of condolence she found in amongst the flowers) then up onto the moor where she let him off the leash so he could run. After an hour or two they returned along the lanes, winding down along the valley and through the town centre where she paused at the video hire shop to get something mushy and romantic to watch, and then home for Jeannie to change into her 'party frock', a figure-hugging sleeveless t-shirt dress printed across the bosom with "Girls 1 Boys 0" . Then they cooked pork chops and runner beans and mashed potato, which Jeannie ate at the table and Dog under the table despite Jeannie's coaxing that he get up and eat his dinner like a gentleman.

"I would love to share a meal with you properly," she chided him as she popped the ring on a can of lager and poured it into a glass. Dog wagged his tail apologetically and watched her finish her meal with his nose on his paws and his soul in his eyes.

Afterwards, Jeannie took more lager and the cake she had bought herself into the  sitting room. She lit a candle, sang 'Happy Birthday' to herself and blew the candle out. Then she cut pieces of cake for each of them and settled down to watch her video. Dog had little interest in this but finished the cake quietly when she wasn't looking and lay beside the couch licking the crumbs from his whiskers. Jeannie drank more lager and sniffed at the sad bits of the video while warming her toes in the thick fur around Dog's neck.

She had just turned the video off to go and get another can of lager when there was a knock at the door and Dog barked.

"What? Who can that be?" Jeannie went to the window and peered out then opened the door to a small man in a raincoat with a badge prominently displayed on his lapel and carrying a clipboard.

"Miss Lawrence, Jeannie Lawrence?" he enquired politely.

"Yes," she replied, "What do you want?"

"Ah, glad to have caught you at home," he said. "My name's Thomas and I'm from the council. We're upgrading the loft insulation in all the houses in this street and I need to know when would be the most convenient time for our workmen to come round and do it." He showed her his identity card and smiled. "Would it be possible for me to come in?"

"Oh," Jeannie looked at him doubtfully. "I haven't heard anything about this," she said, suspiciously.

"No?" Mr Thomas frowned. "But surely you had a letter about it?" 

He consulted a list then turned over a few pages on his clipboard.

"A letter like this," he said, extracting a sheet and offering it for her inspection. "It will have been addressed 'To the Occupier', of course," he added. "But with the  council stationery and post mark, I wouldn't have thought you would mistake it for junk mail."

"Well, I haven't seen anything about it," Jeannie said, definitely, handing the letter back. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"Miss Lawrence, please," Mr Thomas protested. "It will cost you very little. It's a council funded project, you see, and eighty-five percent grants are available. I have all the paperwork here if you could just spare a moment to look it over."

Jeannie peered cautiously up and down the street, remembering what had happened last time she had let a stranger cross her threshold, and Mr Thomas coughed.

"However, if – if it's not convenient," he said quietly, "I could come tomorrow evening. I'm seeing Mr Arkwright at number thirty-three at seven, though it would nice if I could get you scheduled straight away – you'll get to choose when the workmen come then."

He shuffled his papers together and gave her a polite but understanding smile and Jeannie glanced down at Dog. 

Dog had checked Mr Thomas out already and found him to be nervous, as many people were when faced, almost literally, by a dog Dog's size. So Dog had lost interest and was leaning against Jeannie's hip, tail swaying gently, and nudging his head under her hand, hoping to be stroked. Seeing his indifference, Jeannie nodded and let Mr Thomas pass. He sidled past Dog uneasily and settled himself on the edge of a chair with his clipboard on his knees. He sniffed and fished a large white handkerchief from the pocket of his raincoat.

"Now, Miss Lawrence," he began and went into his spiel about savings on fuel bills, grant application procedures and how people were wise to prepare for the winter during the summer. He coughed several times and then paused and blew his nose like a trumpet.

"I'm really sorry," he said apologetically, "but I have this allergy. I wonder if it would be possible…." He paused and looked significantly at Dog.

"You're allergic to dog hair?" Jeannie asked and smiled as he nodded. "See, I told you to stop moulting," she said to Dog and led him into the garden. 

"I won't be long, I promise," she said and shut the back door.

Mr Thomas coughed and blew his nose again but smiled and they rapidly agreed upon next Tuesday afternoon as the best time for the job to be done.

"I'd better just check at the office," he said, pulling his mobile from his pocket, "you know, that the workmen will be available then."

Jeannie smiled and nodded then glanced at the clock.

"Isn't it a bit late?" she said. "I mean, not to be offensive, but the council isn't exactly renowned for working after hours."

"Oh for something like this it's necessary," he replied airily as he punched the buttons. "The majority of people are either at work or out during the day so coming round in the evening is by far the best time to catch everybody. Oh, hello. I'm with Miss Lawrence, 27, Mafeking Row. Is the team available for p.m. Tuesday next?"

He listened smiled and gave Jeannie the thumbs up. "Thanks. I'll confirm it with her now," he said and rang off. 

He stood up immediately and made his farewells.

"Is that it?" Jeannie asked.

"Yes," he nodded and moved towards the door with Jeannie at his heels. "I've done what I came to do. You know, Mrs Matthews," he shook his head and opened the door, "You're a very lucky young woman, to have a husband who cares this much about you."

There were two men patiently waiting on the threshold, both stocky with short blond hair, and one, his arms full of red roses, stepped inside and said, "Happy Birthday, Jeannie. Pleased to see me?"

Jeannie's panic-stricken cry almost drowned out Mr Thomas's quiet farewell.

"You'll get my invoice in a day or two," he said to the man and walked away without a backward glance.

From the garden came the sound of furious barking and a heavy thud against the back door. Jeannie turned to run but the second man kicked the door closed behind him and grabbed her upper arm, spinning her round and overbalancing her to land in a chair.

"Steve," she whimpered, "Darren. Why've you come? I told you, Steve, it's over. Please, sign the papers and just  - leave me alone."

Steve smiled and drew several sheets from his pocket.

"These papers?" he asked and carefully tore them in two and tossed the pieces into her lap. "No, darling, you're my wife and I want you back."

He reached out a hand to gently pat her cheek but she flinched away, sliding over the arm of the chair and away across the room. 

"No," she protested. "No more, not again. Please, Steve, leave me alone."

"He can't do that," Darren interjected. "Not after spending all that money on a private investigator."

"Shut up, Dar," Steve snapped, shooting him an angry glance. "She's going to be a good girl, aren't you Jeannie?" He lay the roses down and stepped towards her. "Darren saw this a few weeks back on a market stall," he pulled a silver photo frame from his pocket, "and we knew we'd found you. The man who nicked it told us where you were soon enough with a little encouragement and Thomas has been watching you almost ever since. Now, pack your things. You're coming back with me."

Jeannie's lips were trembling too much to speak but she took a deep breath and shook her head.

"Jeannie," Steve's voice dropped to a growl, "don't be stupid. Pack your kit and get ready to go."

She found her voice in a wild scream.

"No, no, I won't."

Steve grabbed her by the arms and slammed her back against the wall at the foot of the stairs.

"You'll do as I say," he spat and slapped her across the cheek, driving her to her knees. She gave a sharp cry, too shocked and pained to scream again and the barking from the garden ceased abruptly.

"Now get up and do as you're told," Steve said quietly. "There's a good girl."

There was a bang as the back door opened.

"Jeannie?" a harsh voice called.

Steve lifted her to her feet and stepped away from her just as the kitchen door opened and a tall man with long dark hair stepped into the room. He said nothing but looked from Steve to Darren then at Jeannie and his face paled.

"Who the hell are you?" Steve demanded derisively, taking in the long boots, skin tight jeans, the sleeveless glittery black t-shirt and long black curls and completely missing the set jaw and blazing eyes.

"Jeannie's friend," came the husky reply. "Who are you?"

"Her husband, now fuck off!"

Jeannie, one hand pressed to her throbbing cheek, pushed herself away from the wall and stepped between them.

"No, Steve," she said, hastily. "He lives next door. He – he's been ill and sometimes I help look after him. Don't hurt him, please."

"Get out, nancy boy," Steve looked past her and met Dog's eyes with a sneer, "or my little brother here will slap you back to where you came from." And Darren stepped forward, grinning pugnaciously.

Dog had come in to rescue Jeannie from whatever had made her cry but had been prepared to let whoever it was get away unharmed. But these men – these men smelled like Colin. Colin who had shut him up and hurt him and made him kill just because he could. These men hurt Jeannie and Dog could smell their excitement and their enjoyment of her pain and fear and knew that they would hurt him and Jeannie both just because they could. Dog lowered his head and raised his lip in a snarl. He knew all about people doing things to other people just because they could. He knew more about pain and fear than these pathetic creatures ever would.

"No," he growled. "Go away."

Steve flushed and he and Darren stepped forward, hands raised, and struck a pose.

"No," Jeannie cried. "Dog, get away. Get out. Run." Then she shrank back for Dog's eyes had sharpened and focussed and his usual bland expression changed to one of eager anticipation. His face was suddenly alive with predatory amusement. He laughed, a rough bark and raised his own hands lazily.

"What are you?" he asked Steve, his voice suddenly strong and sneering. "A martial artist or a piss artist?" and waited calmly for Steve to throw the first punch.

Steve and Darren had perfected a routine over the years and were proud of the skills learned in their youth and since polished in many a brawl. They separated to flank him and launched their attack from each side, expecting to confuse, alarm, terrify and maim. But while they had often fought, it had never before been against an opponent who had killed and was quite prepared to kill again.

Jeannie shrank out of the way and covered her mouth with her hands. She recognised Dog's beautiful dance, the poise and the speed, now increased to the point where Steve and Darren were almost unable to make contact. He accepted blows or blocked them with equal fatalism and gave his coughing laugh when Darren swore and staggered back with blood spurting from his nose. Steve took the opportunity to slam in a low blow and Dog grunted, staggering, and Jeannie cried out.

"What are you squealing about, bitch?" Steve snarled and drew back his fist but Dog was there first, hurling Darren from his path to crash and crumple against the wall and closing his hands around Steve's throat to shake him like a rat.

Jeannie screamed in earnest then, sure that Dog would kill him. The lazy amusement had gone from his face, the pupils of his eyes contracted to pin-points and glinting eerily red, and his breath hissing between bared teeth. Steve, yelling with pain and fright tore at the backs of his hands but his struggles were already growing weaker.

"No, Dog," Jeannie shrieked and, in a panic, did the only thing she could think of, and snatched up a folded Radio Times.

"No! Leave. No!" she screamed and slapped him across the back of the head with the magazine. Dog flinched, his eyes widening and focussing again, then he growled, glancing towards Jeannie.

"Hurt you," Dog said, his voice shaking with hatred. "Deserves to die."

"No, Dog, no," Jeannie laid her hands on his shoulders then stroked his hair back from his face. "Leave him be."

Steve, toes barely touching the ground, struggled again and Dog gave him another shake then slapped him soundly around the ear. With Steve's throat still firmly gripped in one hand, Dog stooped to grip the groaning Darren's collar.

He dragged both men to the door and scowled at it until Jeannie opened it and then tossed them both out into the street.

"Go away," he said. "Jeannie doesn't want to see you. Go." Then he slammed the door and locked it.

"Bastards," he growled at the unresponsive wood and turned to catch Jeannie as she fell sobbing into his arms. He growled again to see her swollen cheek and the trickle of blood from her nose. Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her up the stairs and into the bathroom. He jerked the ridiculous t-shirt off over his head and soaked it under the tap, then sat on the edge of the bath with her on his lap and was able to hold the cold wet fabric to her hurt face. Jeannie clung to him crying hysterically and murmuring his name over and over. Dog, too was panting and shaking, horrified at the realisation that he had indeed almost killed the man, but he didn't speak. Instead he stroked Jeannie's back and shoulders, resting his cheek against the top of her head, trying to control his own panic and the almost overwhelming impulse to transform.

Eventually she calmed a little and her stormy tears died away to little hiccupping gasps.

"Oh, Dog," she whispered. "We must go. We must get away before they come back."

"Let them come," Dog grunted. "I'm here. He won't touch you. Never again. He's why you got me, isn't he?"

"Yes," Jeannie admitted and moved her head so she could look into his eyes. "Steve started hitting me soon after we married. At first it wasn't bad – or often. He's got this temper, see. And he'd always promise to stop. I'd go home for a week or so and he'd come round and beg me to go back and – and I always believed him. Oh, Dog, I loved him so…" she wailed, then caught her breath and continued, the words spilling out of her as though a dam had burst. "But Mum and Dad died last summer in a motorway pile up during that freak storm and after that I had nowhere to go and then he got worse  and – and I couldn't stand it, he hurt me so much. He'd take me to the hospital and stand there and tell them I'd fallen downstairs or that I'd walked into a door – and they'd believe him. So, I ran away. There's this women's refuge and they helped me to find this place and my job. It's not much of a job, but with that and the mail shot outwork I can make ends meet. And they found me a solicitor to handle the divorce but Steve won't sign any of the papers. Last time I went to see my brief she read me some letters that Steve had sent her, from our doctor, the local JP, town councillors. Letters that said that he was the one she should feel sorry for – for having been stuck with a hysterical liar for a wife." She buried her face against his neck and tried to control her sobs. "I don't want to run again, Dog, but now he knows where I am he'll never let me have any peace. And now he knows about you he'll hurt you too and I couldn't bear that. Please, Dog, let's pack and go. We'll find a new place to hide. Please, Dog."

She looked up at him, eyes wet and lips trembling scant inches from his own and once again the terrible need struck him like a hammer blow. Hastily he turned his head away, staring up at the dimly lit ceiling and concentrating on his rage and hatred for Steve until the pounding of blood in his ears eased. Then Dog stood up, wincing a little as his bruises pained him and lifted her to her feet. He laid his hand against her cheek, turning her face up to his and wiping the tears away with his t-shirt.

 "You can't hide forever, Jeannie," he said, sadly. "Sooner or later you have to face what you fear and deal with it otherwise…" He shrugged and touched her bruised cheek and his face twitched as though the sight of the dark mark on her fair skin hurt him like knives.

Jeannie looked up at him, at the cut on his cheek and the reddening marks on his belly and arms and raised her hands to lay them on his shoulders.

"What are you hiding from?" she asked him earnestly.

He hesitated and lowered his eyes.

"Myself," he replied. 

"Oh, Dog," Jeannie took a step and raised herself on the tips of her toes, sliding her arms around his neck, and touched his cheek with her lips. "There's no need to hide, not from me." And this time her lips touched his.

Dog froze for an instant, his hands spread out from his sides, his eyes wide, then he clasped her in his arms, eyes closing as they deepened their kiss. Jeannie gave a little sob, relaxing into the comfort and support of the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms, the excitement of the touch of his tongue against hers.

It was only the soft brush of Jeannie's hand against Dog's belly as she popped the button on the waistband of his jeans that brought him to his senses. He gasped and stepped back, pushing her away.

"Jeannie," he said, his voice very low and aching with regret, "please don't."

"Don't you want me?" she asked in a very small voice, eyes bright with sudden tears.

"Oh, God," he groaned. "You don't know what I am, you don't know what I can become."

"Tell me," she demanded. "Tell me what you are?"

He hesitated and groaned again. 

"I – I can't, I don't remember, I won't ….All I know is I've enough on my conscience as it is. If you touch me again I won't be responsible for what happens next."

"No," she said firmly, "but I will. I don't care what you are or what you've done. I don't care why you do what you can do or why it doesn't seem to worry me – I don't understand but I don't care. I trust you, I want you, that's all that matters." She stepped close to him again and ran her hands up across his chest to his face. "Can't you see how much I – care for you?" she asked.

"Jeannie, I don't think we should…" he began to say but she silenced him with a kiss and, after a moment or two, the hands that pressed her body to his said something quite different. 

The bedroom was no more than a pace or two away but Jeannie didn't have to walk. She made the journey held high in strong arms, cradled against Dog's chest. He moved as though she was something incredibly precious and fragile. If she had been made from spun glass and cobwebs, he could not have carried her more gently or seated her more carefully upon the edge of her bed. Then he knelt looking at her, his head cocked to one side. The room was darkened, lit only by the reflected glow from the bathroom light that they had both forgotten to switch off.  But there was light enough for her to see his face and the conflicting emotions that passed across it. She saw desire, oh yes, he certainly wanted her, but there was confusion too and something that looked a little like fear. Carefully, he set one hand on the coverlet at her side and raised the other to lift her curls away from her neck.

"You are so…" he breathed, and frowned. There were things to be said, he knew, words appropriate to the situation, words that would get him what he wanted but the words eluded him. Instead he drew her face up to his. Jeannie met his kiss with a happy sigh, smoothing her hands over his warm skin, and this time when she undid the next button of his jeans, he accepted her help with a smile. It took only a little coaxing for Jeannie to guide him into helping her out of her clothing and then she leaned back, drawing him down beside her, wrapping him in her arms.

When their lips parted he remained poised on one elbow, looking down at her fleecy hair spilling across the pillow, her honey-brown eyes half-closed, her lips parted in a tender smile and deep within him a memory stirred and he shuddered.

"Jeannie," he said in a very small voice. "I'm – I'm afraid…"

Jeannie shook her head.

"Not of me, I hope," she whispered, laughing a little.

"I'm afraid," he repeated. "Afraid I might hurt you."

Jeannie's lips parted in a soundless 'oh' of exasperated amusement. 

 "I'm not made of glass," she told him, looking up at him with just a hint of challenge. "I won't break."

As she watched, his worried frown eased.  As had happened at the end of his fight with Steve and Darren, his gaze sharpened, an eerie red flicker behind the pupils, and his teeth bared in the mirthless smile of a predator. 

"So, you think not?" he hissed, and took her wrist in a grip that, while gentle was quite unbreakable. "Shall we find out?"

*

Well, shall we? 

This is far too long for me to add the usual bit from Remus. That will be Chapter Nine.


	10. Black Dog Chapter 9

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Nine**

Remus awoke with a start, eyes wide in the darkness. Own room, own bed, sadly alone, all quiet. So why was he awake? He sat up and glanced at the bedside timepiece that glanced back at him and muttered crossly "It's two a.m. Go back to sleep."

Remus scowled at it and flexed his shoulders, reflecting as he did so that he was too old to be ordered about by a clock.

"No," he said and threw back the covers. 

Quietly, he padded across the room to the window that stood open, curtains billowing slightly in the night breeze, and poured himself a glass of water from the jug that stood on the sill. It was a balmy night with a sky full of stars and he drank then stood, breathing the warm air deeply, arms spread and hands braced on the sides of the casement, enjoying the touch of the summer air on his skin.

Waking so early had been something to be dreaded, once. Even minor problems could seem insurmountable in the wee small hours and as for the big ones – Remus grimaced  at the memory of time spent staring at the ceiling, grinding his teeth in frustration over little posers like the location of the Death Eater Headquarters, the latest casualty lists, Harry's increasing coldness and detachment and the likelihood of Sirius dying an ugly death in the prosecution of some piece of gallant foolishness. A shudder shook him as he recalled the hopeless despair of those days, mercifully over. Then he yawned, arching his back pleasurably. 

Voldemort was dead as were most of his senior officers and those minions who had survived him were either on the run or locked safely away. Muggle casualties had been kept to a minimum by the subterfuge of tricking Voldemort to give battle at a time and place of their choosing. The wizarding community was more or less back to normal, though mourning continued for there were voids that could never be filled. Werewolves were at last being treated as valid members of the community, though how long that would last was anyone's guess, with rights and responsibilities and representation in the governing bodies. True, Hermione and Harry were at loggerheads over something but he was sure he could negotiate a truce.

Which really left only one problem outstanding - Sirius Black. 

Remus smiled as he thought how often in the past that name had been spoken in tones of outrage, disbelief, fury and contempt and had just begun to laugh, thinking back to one particularly apt prank that they had played on  who was it now? Good grief, Walden Macnair, when a bar of light appeared across the bumpy turf of the lawn.

Remus flinched back out of sight, then realised that the light came from the kitchen window. He had turned towards the door before considering that roaming the house nude was not the best idea. Hastily he slipped into the bathrobe Molly Weasley had given him the previous Christmas and left his room, bare feet silent on the carpet of the landing and stairs.

He paused at the kitchen door, knowing who he would find and unwilling to intrude unless sure he would be welcomed. Hermione had leaned on him very heavily during the first months after her release from hospital but was now inclined to push him away in a show of independence. So he paused, and listened, and heard a stifled sniff.

Hermione was already looking at the door when he stepped inside. Her honey-brown eyes were strained and red and she was just lowering a wad of tissue from her nose.

"Hello," she said weakly.

"Hi there," Remus moved around to the other side of the table. Three months ago he would have gone straight to her side, taken her in his arms and given her his shoulder to cry on but now he felt that perhaps a less physical form of comfort might be more appropriate.

"Hot night, isn't it?" he added, looking for an excuse to remain. "Want some pumpkin juice?"

"No," Hermione replied listlessly, then straightened in her seat. "No, thank you, Remus."

He went to the cold box and withdrew a flask of juice and brought it back to the table, pulling out a chair close enough to Hermione to pat her hand if she looked like she needed it. He drank a little of the juice, set the flask down and gave her an encouraging smile.

Hermione, pretty in the pale blue bathrobe Molly had bought her for Christmas and with her fleecy hair loose on her shoulders, rested her cheek on her hand and turned a woebegone face towards him.

"Remus," she whispered. "Do you ever think that it's possible to be too clever for your own good?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand," he lied, hoping that she might elaborate.

Hermione sighed and reached for the flask of juice and took a sip.

"I mean," she continued, "did you and – and James and the others ever have an idea that was just so blindingly brilliant that you went ahead with it even though, in retrospect, there were also some blindingly obvious flaws?"

Remus hesitated before he replied, grimacing and wrapping his arms around his chest.

"Yes," he replied, shamefacedly. "Hogwarts authorities still think it was an accident so, please, can this be our secret? Making the Slytherin stand collapse during the award ceremony after their arses had been kicked in the Quidditch Cup final seemed like a brilliant idea at the time but we had completely forgotten that the Minister would be sitting with his old house. Nobody else was hurt, but he was out of the loop for six weeks and that's a long time in politics. By the time he was back in charge Junior Minister Fudge had made himself pretty much indispensable and later, when the old man retired, Fudge was the people's choice and look where that got us!" He sighed and reached for the juice. "Sometimes an idea just cries out to be tried and – well – you just have to go with it and accept the consequences. The turbo-woodworm have proved useful a time or two since, though."

Hermione sighed as well, but with relief.

"I knew you'd understand," she said and reached for his hand. "Ideas are powerful things." She turned away for a moment or two, one palm over her eyes, her other hand locked in his on the table. 

"Oh, Remus," she said, after a moment or two. "I've been so stupid."

"Hermione," he started to protest. But she cut him off with an impatient gesture.

"No, listen. Remus, I've loved being here with you and – and Harry but I think I have to leave." She paused and squeezed his hand. "I want to thank you for everything. I don't know how I would have coped if it hadn't been for you. Harry's a dear, though his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired but you – oh, Remus. I'll miss you so much."

Remus ran his other hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face.

"But why?" he asked, suppressing his pain at the thought that his little family might be on the verge of breaking up. "And what on earth has this got to do with you being too clever for your own good?"

Hermione sniffed and mopped her eyes and nose again before replying and when she did he thought at first that she was changing the subject.

"You spent a lot of time with Zelda, didn't you, you know, organising the provision of Wolfsbane potion, the manning of the safe houses. Did you get to see much of Dumbledore?"

Remus smiled sadly at the thought of their old mentor.

"Not nearly enough," he replied. "He was back and forth like a – how did he put it – a fiddler's elbow those last few months. We exchanged news when we could."

"So," Hermione paused, biting her lips, "what did you think when he told you what we had planned?"

"I was terrified," Remus said frankly. "Absolutely, brown-trouseredly terrified. Then I talked it over with Zelda and she agreed with you that it would probably work if the division between Harry and Sirius could be made to seem complete and total and irrevocable. We knew Lucius Malfoy wouldn't be able to resist bringing him in and that they'd expect me to try to retrieve him. It was only the method of establishing the division that gave me pause…that and the possibility that Harry might kill him in a duel before we caught up with them. As it turned out, there was no need to worry.  It was a down and dirty street-fight and Sirius was always the master at that. Harry was lucky. But it did the trick and Malfoy did the rest."

"So," she said again, turning to face him properly, "you were prepared to go through with it even though you knew what was likely to happen to you?"

Remus frowned, unwilling to answer, but desperate to keep her talking now that she had finally, unexpectedly, started to touch upon topics that had previously been taboo.

"I knew it would be bad," he said after a moment. "But I also knew that, though mad as a hatter in many ways, Voldemort was a good tactician. He couldn't kill me; not and keep control of the werewolves." 

"You have nightmares, don't you," she said. "Don't bother to lie to me. My room's next to yours and I've heard you. When you're very tired you don't always remember your Conticescere charm."

"How very embarrassing," Remus commented, mildly. 

"I don't know how you bear it," Hermione said suddenly, fiercely. "How do you bear those memories?"

"Because I have to," he replied, simply. "And some of the memories are ones to be cherished …when Draco came to us with tears on his cheeks and we knew he had decided not to follow his father's path – oh Hermione, you wouldn't believe how that felt …..  of Severus and Sirius standing shoulder to shoulder looking at each other and grinning like maniacs…. and the last time I saw Sirius … I never want to forget that."

"I wish I could forget," Hermione said dully. "But I can't, Remus, I don't think I ever will."

Remus leaned forward. "Hermione?" he asked with concern. 

"It seemed so obvious," Hermione continued. "We already knew that Severus was hopelessly compromised; Voldemort had been toying with him for months, as a spy he was no longer viable. So we needed another man on the inside." She drew a breath but Remus didn't speak. He already knew this, he'd been present at many of the strategy and long-term planning meetings where Albus and Hermione had brainstormed for hours, each outdoing the other in far-fetched flights of fancy which were slowly and inevitably reduced to an icy core of possibility. After a moment she continued.

"We had a choice – we could suborn an existing member of the circle or try to get a new man on the inside. Voldemort's minions were utterly loyal or totally terrified so a new man was the only option. Anyone would be suspect so Albus suggested that we render the most unlikely person possible vulnerable to corruption. An unlikely person… but one with the skills and the strength of will to – do the things he would have to do. The choice was obvious. But for Harry to break with – with him completely he had to do something outrageous yet not overtly Dark. He was going off the rails in a big way, drinking, fighting, those parties …"

"Exoneration on a capital charge is a cause for celebration, Hermione," Remus said quietly then bit his lip but she continued as though he hadn't spoken, her voice soft and hoarse.

"When the Headmaster brought Madam Pomfrey and - him to my flat that night he was as sober as I've ever seen him, pale and grim. We sat together while Dumbledore prepared to administer the charms and he held my hand and I could feel him trembling. Then he smiled, a little shaky smile, and said "Be brave, Hermione". He… he kissed my hand and left, making sure my neighbour would see him while Madam Pomfrey – made the other arrangements. I know this happened, Remus, because as soon as it was safe for me to know Dumbledore told me it happened and – and, since then, Harry showed me. Remus, he showed me in Dumbledore's Pensieve…but it's not what I remember."

"Hermione," Remus said again, keeping his voice steady with an effort, "Harry did take the memory charms off again, didn't he?"

"It's not what I remember," Hermione's breath hitched as she stifled a sob. "I remember his hands tearing at my robes, the taste of blood where his teeth gashed my lip, the weight of his body and the pain … the pain of it. And then Harry's face…the utter shock when he realised what had been done and who had done it." She bowed her head until her forehead was resting on their clasped hands. "Remus, I loved him, like he was a father or a brother. I loved the way he made us laugh, that grin, the sheepish look when he had to confess something to Harry. Now… I wish he was dead."

She raised her head, her honey-brown eyes swimming with tears, and gazed into his stricken face.

"Remus, please forgive me, but I can't stay. I can't bear the thought of seeing him again."

Remus reached out and gathered her up, lifting her onto his lap.

"You shan't have to, Hermione," he promised. "You shan't have to."

He held her until she stopped crying then carried her back up to her room, put her to bed and sat holding her hand until she slept, then he left, shutting her door quietly, his heart like a stone in his breast.

Somehow he was not surprised to sense eyes upon him and turned to see Harry standing against the wall, his skin very pale above the dark material of his pyjama trousers.

"She told you," he whispered.

"Yes," Remus replied, his voice aching in his throat. 

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured. "I tried but I couldn't do it. Dumbledore intended to lift the charm as soon as he could but …it wasn't to be." His voice broke on a sob of frustrated rage. "I couldn't do it, Remus. I don't know exactly what Dumbledore did, what combination of charms he used. Maybe it's because they were together…? I tried and tried and I just wasn't good enough."

"So where does that leave us?" Remus asked. 

"I don't know," Harry replied, sounding so very young and so very lost that Remus extended his arms to him as well.

"Poor Hermione," Remus breathed, patting Harry's back comfortingly. "Poor Harry."

Harry's shaggy head against his shoulder shook gently.

"Poor Hermione," he said, "and… oh, Remus…poor Sirius."

**


	11. Black Dog Chapter 10

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Ten**

Sirius Black awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in the pre-dawn greyness, a shout dying in his throat. He sat frozen for a moment, his breath catching sharply, before turning his head to look down at the body sprawled beside him. He drove the heels of his hands into his eyes, fingers lacing through his hair, and let out a deep gasp of relief.

"Thank God," he whispered. "Thank God."

Jeannie, either in response to his whisper or to the sudden absence of his warmth, murmured a sleepy protest and rolled over, gathering his pillow into her arm and cuddling her cheek into it with the smallest and smuggest of smiles.

He pulled the duvet up to cover her bare shoulders and touched her cheek tenderly with the backs of his fingers, then turned and stood up. 

Once in the bathroom, he turned on the shower and stepped into the stream of water. It was only then, with his hands braced against the tiled wall and the plastic curtain clinging icily to his back and calves, that he lowered his head and let the first sob shake him. 

He had been this close – this close - to killing her. He rested his forehead against the wall as well. He would have done it, too, his mind filled with hateful and enticing memories, of curly hair bunched in his fist, of honey-brown eyes distended with terror and pain, and with the hissing urge to break and tear and spoil. But when he had drawn back from that first bruising kiss, the sick thing inside him expecting her to be horrified and appalled, he had seen only a weary acceptance in her eyes. For Jeannie, this is what love meant; she expected nothing better and to her all men were the same. Suddenly, such a rage had come over him that the gleefully sniggering little presence that couldn't believe its luck fled, cowering, and the sick thing, the beast within, was crushed and beaten back into the darkness. He had kissed her again, properly, a gentle salute born from a growing certainty that, at some time in his life, this situation had been sought eagerly and he had been accounted something of an expert. Jeannie had looked warily at him before smiling and kissing him back … oblivious to her narrow escape. 

He had set himself to please, pride demanding that that look of resignation be banished forever, and felt he had succeeded pretty well. She had cried at the end, her tears hot and salt on his lips, but they were shed for the best of reasons. Then, when she had stopped crying and had calmed down and got her breath back, he started all over again, determined to prove that while people do do things just because they can, sometimes it's with the intention of bringing sweetness and laughter and joy. It had been close to dawn before he allowed her to sleep, and he had lain wakeful, watching her sleeping face in the growing light until he dozed off to a dream of blood and pain and loss, followed by an awakening not just of the body, but of the mind.

He turned under the stream of water, leaning back against the cold tiles, and looked down at the water cupped in his hands, streaming away through the gap left by his missing little finger.

~~~"You owe me an index finger, Padfoot, me old mate," Wormtail gloated. "But I think I'll start small and work my way up to it." ~~~

It hadn't hurt as much as he had thought it would, but by then, he was almost past feeling. None of the many pains inflicted upon his body could compare with those he had already inflicted upon his own soul, and even those were insignificant set alongside what he had felt looking down at the blackened and bloody faces of Remus and Harry.

~~~"Get away from them, you devil," she raged, her body arched protectively over them. "They can never be hurt by you again." Hermione sobbed and shuddered as she met his eyes. "To think we once loved you!"~~~

He splashed the water against his face, wondering if he would ever feel clean again.

~~~"Stop right there, Black," Harry spat his name as though it was caustic and he turned, facing his godson with a wry smile as the onlookers scurried for cover. Harry's knuckles were white upon his wand and he was shaking with fury and distress.

"Think you can take me, boy? Come on, then. Give it your best shot."~~~

He rested his head back against the tiles, feeling the water beat against his eyelids, pretending with gratitude that all of the hot drops coursing down his cheeks were no more than the shower water. The water was almost scalding but he wrapped his arms around his shoulders to try to still his shivering.

~~~"I don't think I can face it," he whispered, and covered his black eyes with bloodied hands.  "I know how he'll do it. He knows, above all things, I dread ending up like the Longbottoms. If it was just the pain…." He turned towards the door where laughing voices could be heard then turned back, his lank black hair swinging against his gaunt cheek, fear and appeal naked on his face. As the door opened and their deaths approached, their hands met and clung together.~~~

"Time to face the facts," he murmured to himself. He could never return to the wizarding world. At best he was considered dead, at worst there was a Dementor with his name on it and a holding pen where he would drool his remaining months away.

~~~Voldemort's lips thinned still further into a mirthless smile. "Stop, stop, Lucius. I appreciate your anger but do not exhaust yourself unnecessarily. Lift his head so he can see me – that's right. Black – Sirius – can you hear me? Ah, still so brave! Let's see – how would you like to meet an old acquaintance – from Azkaban?"~~~

No…. no, there could be no going back.  With that decision made he straightened up and reached for the sticky shower potion.  Muggle life wasn't so bad, he thought, working up a lather in his hair, then spreading the bubbles down over shoulders and chest.  He could blend in, he knew, he'd done it often enough over the years.  He supposed he could get a job, but until then he could arrange for funds.  One thing about Gringotts – they didn't care what crimes you committed as long as you didn't exceed your overdraft. Goblin exchange rates were wicked but, as long as he was careful, his income would be adequate for a long time. He even had a home of sorts. He knew that Remus – his hands stilled for a moment as another great pang of loss struck him – Remus would have wanted him to go back to that little unplottable cottage they had shared for such a short, but such a sweet, time. But first he had a duty, a sacred duty to perform. 

~~~ "If I die…"

"Don't be stupid, Moony."

"No… if I die, promise me you'll lay a stone for me at the Towers of Sadness. It's time I faced up to what I am."

"I'll tell you what you are, Moony, mistaken. They'll have to kill me first, and that's a promise!"~~~

So many promises broken, so many lives lost. He knuckled his eyes and swore mildly at the sting of the soap. Oh, for a decent cleansing spell. He lifted his face to the stream of water again, smiling as it trickled, like tickling fingers, from throat to breast to belly and on down. He'd have to get used to it – and to his new responsibilities.

~~~"Let them come. I'm here. He won't touch you. Never again. He's why you got me, isn't he?"~~~

Jeannie was relying on him, for help and protection and – yes – for love, too. He watched the last of the bubbles streaming away and reached up to turn off the shower. Then he stepped out and faced himself in the mirror. The reflection looked back – frowning black brows, jaw shadowed with a two-day stubble, full lips tight and compressed in an uncompromising line, blue eyes cold as a winter night – but it didn't speak to him.

"You," he told the man in the mirror, "are a liar, a murderer and a rapist. You deserve to have your soul sucked out and consigned to oblivion." The rustle of bedclothes and the sound of a sigh made him flinch then he met the chilly gaze again with a bleak sneer. 

"But you're also a coward," he said. "Last chance, Black, you bastard. Leave, leave now, before she wakes up. Go north to the Towers and lay a stone for Remus then it doesn't matter what happens to you. You've broken promises to just about everybody else, why not Jeannie? If you stay, you'll hurt her and she's been hurt enough."

There was another sigh from the bedroom and he sighed as well and wrapped a towel around his hips. Then he went with a heavy heart to do what he knew to be the right thing.

**

Jeannie's awakening came in three distinct stages. Initially, she became aware that she was wholly warm, utterly relaxed and very, very pleased with herself. Then she stretched and winced a little at the numerous, pleasurable, minor aches and pains before smiling broadly at the memories they invoked. Finally, she reached out questing hands, found only rumpled sheets and sat up with a gasp of loss. His jeans were there at the bedside but his boots were gone and the wardrobe where she had hung the rest of his own clothing was standing open.

She pulled on her dressing gown as she ran down the stairs.

"Dog," she called, sensing a current of cool air, and dashed into the kitchen. The back door stood open. Framed in the soft morning light, he turned to face her and she caught her breath.

Her repairs had been sound. The black breeches and green robe looked adequate, even if clearly past their best, but he had obviously disdained to put on the ruined shirt.  His hair was still damp from the shower, slicked severely back and tied at the nape of his neck, and his face looked in some way younger. The fine lines around his eyes were less obvious as though some conflict had been resolved, but his expression was stony and his gaze slid evasively away from hers.

"Good morning," he said, and Jeannie saw a flush of red darken his cheekbones. "I – I'm sorry," he continued. "What I did last night was unforgivable."

Jeannie's cheeks reddened, too. "There's nothing to be sorry for," she protested. "It was something wonderful, something we both wanted, needed. How can you regret it?"

He looked towards her then and Jeannie thought she had never seen such pain in a face. For a moment the situation quivered on a knife edge and she thought that he would turn tail and flee, then his breath left him in a guttural moan and he took one quick stride and folded her into his arms.

"Jeannie," he breathed. "Oh, my dear…dear girl."

She gripped him fiercely, burying her face at the base of his throat and moving her mouth blindly across his skin.

"Don't leave me," she begged. "Please….please don't leave me."

There was another moment of palpable tension then he groaned again. He took her hands and led her to a chair and seated her then sank to his haunches at her side.

"I've been many things," he said haltingly, "but I have always been honest with my lovers. Until last night. You don't know who I am or what I've done. You don't know the danger I could put you in."

"Oh," Jeannie's eyes spilled over with angry tears, "I thought I made myself clear last night. Or weren't you listening? Or did you just want to go to bed with me and, now you have, you'll be on your way?"

He bowed his head and took her hands, carrying them both to his mouth and kissing them.

"You don't know what you're dealing with," he whispered. "It isn't safe for you to have me here – not like this…" he nodded down at his human body and Jeannie looked too and gave a groan of mingled despair and desire.

"Yes, I do," she said, snatching her hands free and gripping his hair to make him face her. "I don't care what you've done to anyone else. God, Steve was the ideal husband as far as the rest of the world was concerned – so sweet, so generous, so kind and thoughtful  - and he used me like a punchbag. But you….nobody has ever touched me like that before. You made me feel precious and fragile and – and cherished. You made me happy." She said it as though being happy was something so far out of her experience that it was a source of wonder.

"You made me happy," she repeated, her eyes searching his face. He looked up at her for a long moment then he rose to his feet, carrying her with him and held her tightly with his cheek pressed to the crown of her head.

"That must be a first," he said lightly. "I don't think I've ever made anyone happy before. Or, when I did, it wasn't for long." He smiled down at her and smoothed her tangled hair away and added, "You make me happy too."

They kissed – a kiss that to Jeannie seemed to go on forever – then she stepped back and sighed.

"Breakfast?" she asked. 

He smiled and nodded.  "I'll make it," he told her, "while you get dressed."

"You can cook?" she said, incredulously. "As well! Is there no end to your talents?"

He blinked and looked uncertain for a moment then smiled again.

"You don't know the half of it," he said.

*

Porridge wasn't something that Jeannie would normally have considered as a preferred option for breakfast but, as made by Dog, it was surprisingly tasty.

"It reminds me of my youth. Sticks to your ribs," Dog said with relish. 

"You could do with a double helping, then," Jeannie said critically, eyeing the narrow strip of flesh visible where his robe parted. "There's not enough fat on you to grease a pan. I didn't know you were a Scot. You don't sound Scottish."

"I went to school in Scotland; the benefits of public school education – enormous breakfasts and learning to speak like a newsreader."

"As opposed to the drawbacks of regular floggings and being buggered by the prefects?"

He choked on his last spoonful and gave her a wicked look.

"Whoever said they were drawbacks?" he said and dodged as she flicked at him with a tea towel.

"You're getting your memory back," she said. "Good grief, maybe you're gay!"

He smiled back.  "I think we might have noticed last night if I was," he pointed out.  "Have you finished your breakfast?  Good, because I want to talk to you and I need you to pay attention."

"Ooh, getting a little dominant aren't we?"  Jeannie grinned at him, happy to see his growing confidence.

"Last night," he began, taking her hand and holding it tightly between his own, "last night I said that eventually you have to face up to your fears…"

"You're perfectly right," Jeannie agreed.  "I can't let Steve get away with it.  Let him come!"

"Ah," Dog looked a little sheepish.  "The thing is… that was before my memory started to come back…I've changed my mind. I think that we should leave." 

He hesitated, looking down at their clasped hands, before adding, "I promise I'll explain it all to you, but we should leave, and leave soon. I have to go somewhere first but, afterwards, there's a place I know where you can be safe. Steve will never find you there and, if you like…" he hesitated again, "I could be there with you?"

"I… I would like that," Jeannie bit her lip, "but would you be you or the dog?"

"The dog, for most of the time, until we get there," he admitted, "but then I'll be whatever you want me to be."

"You," she said, definitely, and squeezed his hand. "Where are we going first?"

"North," he said, " a long way north. There's this place, a tower in a forest, a place of mourning. I have to go there to – to say goodbye to someone I cared for." His face twitched again as though at a memory too painful to contemplate and he shuddered. "I can't say goodbye to all the others but I must do this. Then we can come south again to my old home. Nobody lives there now and we'll be safe."

Jeannie hesitated, it was on the tip of her tongue to demand explanations, descriptions, details and reassurance, but his face had paled and his eyes were overbright. The returning memories were obviously agonising. Besides, as long as she was going to be with him she didn't really care where she went. So she squeezed his hand again and gave him a brave smile.  "I suppose we had better start packing then," she suggested. "But first – well – I don't believe that your name is really Dog!"

"It's not," he agreed. "My name is Sirius – Sirius Black."

She drew a sharp breath, her eyes searching his face for any resemblance to the horrendous images that had been plastered over the newspapers eighteen months before.

"Sirius Black the murderer?" she repeated. "I saw the reports on your appeal year before last? Twelve years in Rampton for a crime you didn't commit, wasn't it? But didn't you get off?"

"I was exonerated," he corrected. "A full pardon, apologies from the authorities for wrongful arrest and a whacking great lump of compensation. I promise, Jeannie, the police aren't involved this time. I'd just rather avoid – the others of my kind."

"Your kind?" Jeannie didn't withdraw her hand but it tensed in his grip. He turns into a dog, she reminded herself. Did you really expect him to be human?

"Oh my God," she gasped. "You're an alien, aren't you?"

Sirius jaw dropped for a moment then he began to laugh, a low gentle chuckle of genuine mirth. "An alien!" He laughed again, the expression wiping years from his face even as he wiped tears from his eyes. "Oh, Remus would have loved that. No, I'm not an alien. It's just that there are people in this country who can do things that most other people can't do."

"I know," Jeannie agreed rather wildly. "There's a girl at work who can lick her own earlobes."

"And I expect that she's very popular too," he said. "Though, that isn't quite what I meant. Just as some people have a talent for music or maths, there are others who can do things that – that might be described as magic. We tend to keep ourselves secret."

"And how do you do that?" Jeannie scoffed. "I'd have thought people might have noticed if there are dozens of people about who can pull rabbits out of hats and bouquets of flowers out of their underwear."

"Oh?" Sirius smiled at her, "and how many people have you told that you have a dog that can turn into a man – and vice versa?"

"None," Jeannie protested, "because they wouldn't believe me if I did."

"Good," Sirius sighed. "That means that the 'noli me videre' charm my parents put on me when I was born is still working. I thought it probably was. Your neighbour, Mrs Arkwright, saw me yesterday but I bet she hasn't told anyone that she saw a big black dog turning a key in a lock and hiding it under the doormat! And none of the children playing in the street when I came back with my mouth full of flowers ran screaming for their mothers either. A couple of them patted me and said what a clever boy I was, though."   
Jeannie laughed at his pleased expression, then nodded.  "OK," she said. "Packing first … but then I think I might need you to tell me all about it – like the dog thing?"

"I promise I'll tell you about the dog thing," Sirius said and gave her a smile that made her heart thump.

Quickly, they put the kitchen to rights and Jeannie began to sort out her own possessions from those that came with the house.

"We need boxes," Jeannie said as she looked at the growing pile. "Luckily, I kept all the ones I used last time in the shed. I hoped I wouldn't need them again but…."

She wandered from the kitchen to the sitting room looking for her bunch of keys. When she had come in the previous afternoon, she remembered, she had been laughing at Dog and had put them down…. Yes, on the arm of the couch. Sighing, she slid her hand down between the side of the couch and the cushion and felt for the cold metal, wincing as she felt other things slide and crackle under her fingers. She pulled the cushion off onto the floor and scowled at the accumulation of sweet wrappers, magazines and loose change. There were her keys, though, right over at the back beside – something else. She frowned at it and wriggled it out from its snug nest under the back cushion and sat back on her heels with it balanced across her palms. A smoothly tapered bar of wood, polished not with beeswax or lacquer but with use, it weighed heavily, cold against her skin.

From behind her she heard a soft sound and turned her head. Sirius was standing, staring, in the kitchen doorway, a pile of clean washing spilling unheeded from his hands and she remembered the night she had taken his green robe from him, how the material had snagged between the cushions, how she had tugged at it until it had come free.

"Sirius?" she said. "Is this yours?"

He stepped over the pile of clean sheets and towels and looked down at her, his hands suddenly knotted in the sides of his robe as though he was afraid that they would be burned.

"Yes," he whispered. "It is. I ….I thought I'd lost it."

"It must have fallen out of your pocket," she suggested as she stood up and offered it to him. "What is it?"

"Wand. Lignum vitae, fifteen inches, harpy wing tendon, nice for transfiguration work but it'll do charms a treat, too. Don't think Ollivander realised how good it would be for curses… Ollivander said I should take better care of this one. Ollivander said if I took care of it, it would take care of me," the frantic babble died away as he extended his hand, his fingers trembling slightly. Slowly they closed around the thicker end of it and he lifted it from her hands, eyeing it as though it might explode.

"What does it do?" Jeannie asked, interested but slightly apprehensive. She stepped across to his side and put a comforting arm around his waist.

"Things," he replied. "All kinds of things."

She slipped her other hand into the front of his robe feeling the hammer of his heart under her palm. She moved her hand gently, combing her fingertips through the strands of hair.

"Do you want me to take it and put it away somewhere?" she asked, gently.

He flinched away from the suggestion almost as much as he was flinching from the object. Then he drew a deep breath and shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "It's a part of what I am, a part of me." He straightened up and smiled at her, his free hand clasping warmly around her shoulder. "Without it I'm not whole, not complete. Cut, neutered. But with it ….look, I'll show you."

He stepped across to the dresser and opened the drawer. From it he withdrew the little cardboard box and turned the broken pieces of Jeannie's brooch out onto the surface. He hesitated for a moment, biting his lip, then directed the tip of the wand at the twisted pieces of gold.

"Reparo fibula," he said, quietly.

Nothing happened.

"Sirius," Jeannie put her arms around him. "Please. There's no need."

"Yes there is," his voice rose, determination mingling with fear. "Reparo fibula."

This time the hair lifted on the back of Jeannie's neck, an icy cold thread of air touched her cheeks and stung her eyes and she smelled the harsh scent of burning. Panicking, she tried to let go of Sirius, to step away from him but he caught her waist, pulling her into a tight embrace, his muscles almost crackling with building tension.

"Reparo!" he cried in desperation, then his body arched as the power flooded through him tearing a scream of release from his throat. The pieces of the brooch flew together, the cracked stones reforming, the missing stones reappearing to glitter frostily. Jeannie gasped. Pain stabbed her right arm as the bone broken in a childhood fall was made whole. Sirius' clothing suddenly gleamed, fresh and undamaged, and all around the house cracked plates were no longer cracked, frayed or stained linen was made good, the dripping tap in the bathroom ceased to drip and outside, in the street, the elderly car that Jeannie's neighbour had been trying to coax into life started with a roar. Old Mrs Brimble's arthritic hip twinged for a moment as she made her halting way down to the corner shop then she stepped out with a spring in her stride. The sub-standard components languishing in the skip up at the factory were suddenly perfect.  Up on the ridge, Sam threw another stick for Tag and found that he had ceased to think about the pretty but worthless girl to whom he had once been engaged. He frowned and blinked and wondered what Jeannie was doing.

But Jeannie was transfixed by the look of ecstasy on Sirius' face as he collapsed into her arms.

*

In the Ministry office, the monitoring station went briefly crazy, vibrating across the table and onto the floor where it skittered across the parquet scattering components and extruding a length of ink blotched parchment like an ulcerated tongue.  

"What on earth…?" 

The witch at the desk jumped again as an alarm began to chime and she rounded the desk and tore off the strip of parchment with shaking hands.

Two minutes later she was in Legate Malfoy's office watching him scan the read-out with a white face, and five minutes later he was clambering out of the fireplace in Harry's sitting room under the astonished gazes of Harry and Remus.

"Malfoy?" Harry gasped, as Draco straightened up, heedless of the soot and ashes darkening his face and hair. "Whatever's the matter?"

"No more than fifteen minutes ago Sirius' wand performed a simple repairing spell," Draco announced but shook his head grimly at Harry's glad cry.

"Where is he?" Harry demanded.

"That's the problem," Draco said. "The wand is somewhere in the Wensleydale area but we couldn't get a proper triangulation."

"Never mind," Harry was grinning. "It gives us a place to start. Remus, can you come with me? There can't be that many Sirius lookalikes in that area, whether man or dog."

Remus met Draco's gaze and his heart sank.  "Harry, there's no guarantee that it was Sirius who set the spell," he warned. "Maybe someone found the wand? A child, perhaps. Such a weak spell that it wouldn't triangulate…"

"That's not the reason it wouldn't triangulate," Draco interrupted, angrily. "For God's sake, do you think we press the panic button for a kid's first efforts? The spell was set with such power that there was barely time for it to register and it covered almost the whole of Wensleydale. The power was off the scale – the bloody monitor broke!" He drew breath and shrugged. "Let's put it this way, if he was repairing a clapped out Cleansweep Seven for somebody, they are now the proud owners of a Zoroaster class Firebolt  Mk  Four with stabiliser fins, Impervius charms and a built in cocktail cabinet. And he probably threw in a panda hide carry bag to boot! On a more ominous note I doubt that there's a cracked plate in the whole of Yorkshire."

There was a tense silence and Hermione opened the door and stepped into the room, smiling as she saw their guest. "Draco," she said. "Did you know that your hair's full of soot?" 

Her face fell as nobody replied.

"What is it?" she demanded then answered her own question. "You've found him haven't you! Oh, my God, what has he done? Who has he hurt this time?"

Remus turned to her and took her trembling hands in his.

"We know roughly where he is," he told her, "and, as far as we know, he hasn't hurt anyone. Harry and I will go and see if we can find him."

"Remus," Hermione's eyes filled with tears, "I'm sorry – I'm so sorry – but I can't…."

He made quiet hushing noises as he held her and scowled at Draco who scowled back.

"If you think you and Potter are going to bring in Black alone, White Fang, you're in for a disappointment," Draco snapped. "I've assembled a team. We're ready to go at a moment's notice  - and you two civilians can stay well back out of the line of fire."

"Dammit, Draco," Harry flushed and took a step forward. "We don't know that he's dangerous!"

"Don't we?" Draco asked, sneering. "Forgotten what happened last time you pulled your wand on him, Harry? And you thought you had a real grievance, then."

There was a short and very unpleasant silence during which Remus transferred one hand from Hermione's shoulder to Harry's bicep, gripping hard enough, he knew, to leave a print, while Harry controlled his temper. Draco glared back, uncowed.

"So, what you suggested may be true, then, Draco," Remus began, his calm voice cutting through the icy atmosphere. "We don't know how the accumulated power will affect someone like Sirius…" 

"What you're trying to say, Wolfman," Draco interrupted, "is that we don't know what pure evil plus the power of a treacherous coward will do to someone who's been fighting a battle with insanity for the best part of twenty years." His chin lifted at Harry's protest. "The power of the 'Reparo' spell is enough to indicate that we should be prepared to go in with "extreme prejudice". You can do what you like but I'm going fully shielded and taking plenty of curse fodder. If necessary, I'm certain I can bring him down before we lose more than half a dozen."

"Leading from the rear, Malfoy?" Harry's voice was silky. "High rank hasn't changed your style, I see."

There was another burst of flame from the fireplace and Ron stepped, coughing, onto the hearthrug. He stared round at the tableau of Remus holding Hermione, and Harry and Draco, eyes locked in fury.  "All right!" he said with a grin.

"Ron," Harry didn't take his eyes off Draco's, "thank God you're here. Sirius…"

"I know all that," Ron interrupted. "I'm here to take Hermione to the Burrow to keep her company while you go to do what's necessary. Go on, get along with you."

"But how did – Malfoy?"

Draco's cold face split into a sneer of the utmost contempt.  "I need you both to have your wits about you," he snapped, "not worrying about the little lady here.  I sent for a competent baby-sitter – unfortunately she wasn't in, so I had to make do with what I could find in the time available."

Harry and Ron both drew breath to reply but Remus cut smoothly across them.

"Thank you, Draco, that was a kind thought," he said, noting with wry amusement that a tinge of colour had crept into Draco's cheeks.

"No kindness intended," Draco growled. "If I could be sure it was a simple search and destroy I wouldn't have even told you. As it is, I may need… Oh, just – get a move on." 

Hermione shuddered as Remus transferred her firmly into the supportive circle of Ron's arm.

"Please," she whispered, gripping his hand, "be careful, Remus. Don't let him hurt you. Don't let him hurt Harry."

Harry turned to her and touched her shoulder gently.

"Hermione," he said quietly but very firmly, "Sirius won't hurt anyone. I won't let him. Go with Ron, now, and I promise that I will come by before dark to tell you what has happened."

Ron met Harry's eyes and gave a grim smile then ushered Hermione towards the fireplace. 

Remus watched the flames engulf them and drew a deep breath. Something was ending here, something that had been so sweet, and for a moment he felt a wave of panic wash over him. Then Harry spoke again, drawing his attention back to their current problem. His own selfish concerns would have to wait.

"Draco's right, Remus. We have to go carefully and find out whether Sirius is in control of himself." He paused and caught Remus' eyes, his face set with determination, and Remus was forcibly reminded that this was the young man who had survived everything the Dark had thrown at him for the past ten years. "I've lost too many people I cared about," Harry continued, "to be willing to lose Sirius again. Draco, I hope your men understand that. He is to be given every chance to come quietly."

"Understood," Draco said coldly. "We can't get away with summary executions like we used to – not under this Minister. Even so, Black's a fighter. My men must have the right to defend themselves." 

"Agreed," Harry said sharply, turning to extract his and Remus' cloaks from a cupboard. "And there's something else to be taken into consideration. Remus, I may not be willing to lose Sirius, but that doesn't mean that I have any illusions about what we may have to do when we find him."

 "I know," Remus agreed, gravely. "He and I promised each other long ago. If we find him and Sirius isn't…Sirius…I know what must be done."

"And that makes three of us," Draco agreed. Then he paused, looking from Harry's determined face to Remus' white one, and Remus suddenly noticed that he was trembling and his cold eyes were overbright.  "Listen to us," Draco said softly, "coolly and efficiently planning to kill him," he drew a deep breath and his voice broke on a laugh, "when I, for one, will admit that I'd sooner stick pins in my eyes than do anything of the kind!"

**


	12. Black Dog Chapter 11

**Black Dog**

**Chapter Eleven**

Sirius' second awakening of the morning was a vast improvement upon the  first. Instead of jerking awake with a scream dying in his throat, he was soothed and gentled by a warm hand stroking his hair and the exquisite sensation, dearly familiar from other past and fondly remembered awakenings, that his cheek was pillowed upon a woman's breast. He made a vague sound of approval and turned his face deeper into the warm softness.

"Well, I don't know why I was so worried," Jeannie said, her tart tone belied by the quaver in her voice. "There can't be much wrong with you if you can do that!"

Sirius opened his eyes properly and squinted up at her then down at his own gracelessly sprawled limbs. "Merlin," he breathed. "That doesn't happen too often. Was it as good for you as it was for me?"

"Evidently not." Jeannie giggled and helped him to sit up. "What on earth happened?"

Sirius looked around and grabbed his wand, looking closely at it to ensure that it had suffered no hurt, then slipped it into the long pocket inside his right sleeve.

"It happens sometimes," he said. "If you haven't worked any spells for a long time – pressure builds up and, if you're not careful, it all …boils over like a... like a…"

"Like a milk saucepan," Jeannie supplied.

"That'll do," he agreed, "though it seems as though I've made some improvements rather than a mess… I don't remember the carpet being this colour!"

"Neither do I," Jeannie agreed, "and these jeans were supposed to be ripped thank you very much."

Sirius laughed and gathered his long legs under him to lever himself to his feet. All around him were signs of the prodigious amounts of power he had expended. He stared around marvelling then something occurred to him. He shrugged his robe off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor, and ran his hands over his arms and torso.

"Yes!" he crowed, vanity suddenly kicking back in after a long absence. Even the worst of his scars had faded and most of those that he had gained through non-magical means were almost invisible.

"How's my back?" he asked, craning his neck. 

Jeannie, who had been looking at him with her mouth slightly open, shut it and stepped behind him and he felt her hands drifting down his spine then round to the front. "Jeannie," he said. "I thought we were going to pack?" 

Jeannie didn't reply but slid her arms around him, one hand trailing fingertips up across belly and breast to touch and caress his face while the other swooped down to his waist… then further, insinuating itself under his waist band.

"Jeannie? Uh, Jeannie...oh…" While Jeannie may have had very little hands she also had a very firm grip.

"It just seems a pity to me," Jeannie murmured, her lips moving against his shoulder blades, "to expend all this energy packing when you have something up your sleeve that could probably do it all for us while we do something – more worthwhile?"

Sirius contemplated the lengthy explanation he needed to give;  the subtlety of the ebb and flow of magical power, that a wizard needed to tap into it at just the right point to achieve his aims and that distractions, even the softest… most delicate… most delightful… of distractions, could spell disaster. 

"Jeannie," he started then he sucked in his breath. They could always, he decided, pack after lunch.

**

The Ministry House in York was a large stone edifice on a quiet street. The brass plates beside the imposing entrance advertised various businesses – a chartered accountants', a local department of the Milk Marketing Board and a secretarial agency. All these were legitimate Muggle businesses. However, the solicitors on the ground floor, Hardiman, Beldame and Toque, had other duties in addition to conveyancing and only a few of their many customers were Muggles. The elderly lady standing at the reception desk, who had come in to collect her revised Will, jumped a little as three men suddenly appeared in the corner behind a display of potted palms but decided that she couldn't possibly have seen such a thing and turned back to the receptionist.

"Oh, excuse me a moment, please, Mrs Micklethwaite," the young woman behind the desk said apologetically and turned towards the new arrivals. "Mr… Mr Malfoy? Mr Hardiman is expecting you. If you would like to go though?"

Mrs Micklethwaite smiled indulgently as she watched the receptionist smile politely at the first two young men, who swept past with a nod, and then blossom into dewy-eyed confusion as the third man paused to return her smile and murmur his thanks.

"Oh," the receptionist breathed, as they disappeared into Mr Hardiman's suite of offices. "That was Remus Lupin. I wonder if I'll be able to get his autograph?" 

Mrs Micklethwaite, who may have been elderly but retained all her faculties, collected her Will and left, vowing to remember the warmth of that smile. Unfortunately, due to the wards on the building, she had forgotten all about the three men by the time the front door had closed behind her.

Legate Malfoy nodded to Mr Hardiman's secretary but did not speak. He led the way to and through another door and into a large room where a dozen uniformed men sitting beside a long table leapt to their feet.

"At ease, gentlemen," he snapped and swept down to the far end of the room. At his imperative gesture, Harry and Remus followed to take their places at his side then seated themselves while Malfoy remained standing. Remus looked down the table, spotting a few familiar faces. Two in particular caught his eye and he glanced at Harry. From his tense expression, he had also recognised them. Norden was staring boldly back, but Fraser's eyes were fixed on his hands, linked together before him. The other men had obviously also recognised their Legate's companions and there was a muted buzz of speculation as they took their seats at Malfoy's command.

"Gentlemen," Legate Malfoy began, his voice soft but the room stilled to utter silence. "Please open your folders." At a gesture from his wand hand, dark blue card folders appeared in front of each man present. Harry caught Remus' eye. Apparently Malfoy still wasn't above a little showing off. 

They opened their folders and found themselves looking at copies of the Ministry read out from the trace machine, a map of the western part of the county clearly marked with a large red circle and a large scale map of the area within it. Malfoy's quiet, light voice began a remarkably succinct briefing to which the assembled Aurors listened attentively. Remus felt his uneasiness growing as he heard Malfoy describe their operation to apprehend a fugitive "considered at various times to be both one of the Dark Lord's trusted servants, and a tireless supporter of the Light. A most powerful wizard who may currently be in a state of considerable distress and disorientation." Remus shifted uneasily in his seat and frowned at Malfoy who met his eye with a lift of his brows.

"I cannot stress strongly enough," Malfoy continued smoothly, "that, in this particular case, it is imperative that our subject should be taken alive. Now, if you will open the sealed envelopes…"

Remus winced as he saw the photographs. The most damning showed Sirius, barefaced and hollow-eyed, amidst a group of hooded men. They were climbing the stairs of what Remus recognised with sick horror as the Ministry building in Cheltenham. As he watched, Sirius looked up straight into the security camera's lens and winked before tugging his own hood down to mask his face. Some of the other pictures were almost as bad – especially the one showing him with Lucius Malfoy's arm around his shoulders, the two heads bent close together, smiling and whispering. Remus couldn't understand how Draco could bear it but the Legate's hands were perfectly still and when one of the Aurors asked, "But, sir, who is our target?" he replied, "Sirius Black," without any shade of concern.

"Black's dead," a harsh voice snapped – Remus thought it was Fraser, "killed in the battle. He died a hero. Everybody knows that."

"Everybody, possibly, but Black," Malfoy said. "We have reason to believe," he added, "that Black may have survived the battle and has been in hiding ever since – whether from us or from his erstwhile confederates we can't be sure." 

One of the older men raised a tentative hand.

"Hubbard?" Malfoy acknowledged him.

"Legate," Hubbard turned over the papers in the folder, "the area marked here – it has a small but vital wizarding population, mainly in the farming communities scattered amongst the dales. Should we notify them of the danger?"

Malfoy met his concerned gaze and smiled. "Local man?" he asked. Hubbard nodded. "Well, Hubbard, as yet we have not established whether Black is actually dangerous."

There was a stir at that, stilled when Malfoy raised his head.

"Sir." One of the other men spoke, it sounded, through gritted teeth. "This photograph. I was at Cheltenham!"

There was a moment's quiet, an acknowledgement of shared sorrow, broken by Harry.

"Cheltenham," he repeated quietly. "Three dead, seven injured. A terrible loss. Two Death Eaters also died. Upon the body of one of them was found a paper naming some of the Dark Lord's secret adherents, including two at the most senior level in the wizarding Cabinet." He paused to allow them to absorb the implications then continued, his voice as light and matter-of-fact as Malfoy's. "During the raid at Royal Ascot another Death Eater died, having inexplicably fumbled the certain kill of a minor member of the Royal family. Upon her body were found the plans for another raid – this time the one on Diagon Alley. Prior warning allowed us to increase our security presence unobtrusively to the level that the attack was met with overwhelming force and few casualties were incurred. Death Eater casualties, too, were light. However, one in particular was of interest to us. He was not cursed or done to death by any other magical means but was found with a broken neck and was carrying details of a prospective attack on a Muggle village. This information was passed on to the relevant authorities – who decided to allow the attack to go ahead unopposed. You will remember the reports, the deaths, the atrocities. Again, one Death Eater died, according to the Daily Prophet, stabbed by one of the teachers of the village school. Actually, the woman in question insisted that he was killed by one of his companions. You will also remember that all the children and staff in the school survived unharmed. When the Death Eater's body was examined, a string of numbers was found written under his Mark. It was a grid reference – a Muggle device to locate a place on a map – for another Muggle village. This village later proved to be the closest plottable location to Voldemort's headquarters."

"But," Hubbard was looking sick, "what about all the other raids, the evidence of the victims recovered from Voldemort's HQ, all those poor folk who were taken and …then returned to us. Are you telling me that they were lying?"

"No," Harry said quietly. "I wish I could. The Headmaster sent Black to do a job and he did it the only way it could be done. That he infiltrated the organisation and provided us with the information we needed to fight back is now common knowledge. The means he would have to use were known and sanctioned at the highest level."

"And your point is?" asked Fraser, looking up for the first time.

"There is no point," Malfoy interjected. "Only my orders. Black is to be taken alive. Alive and capable of talking. Defend yourselves but with nothing above second level curses. I want no heroics. Locate, isolate and immobilise." He paused and raked them with his chilly glare. "Remember, gentlemen. Alive! Now, go about your business. Dismissed." 

While the men dispersed, and Mr Hardiman's secretary brought in a tray with coffee, tea and freshly pressed pumpkin juice, Remus sat looking at the photographs. One must have been taken by one of Voldemort's minions and found amongst the great mass of papers abandoned when his HQ was deserted. In it his old friend was sprawled decoratively across a chair, wildly dishevelled and looking at the photographer through his eyelashes in the most provocative way. Remus could only assume that the photographer had been female – though during Remus' captivity he'd noticed that some of the masked and hooded figures found most frequently at Sirius side had been of a rather stalwart build.

A hand reached over his shoulder and took the photograph from him and he looked up into Draco's weary face.

"Amanita Lestrange took this," Draco said. "Sirius insisted on calling her 'poppet'. Even after she'd put the Cruciatus on him for the fifth time, he was still saying 'Amanita poppet' and giggling like a monkey." Draco put the photograph back into the folder and closed it and lay his hand on the top of it. Remus looked at the thin, fine-boned hand, with its savagely bitten nails and suddenly remembered how young Draco was. Both he and Harry had a quality that somehow made one forget that they were both still in their early twenties. It was something to do with their eyes, he decided, something that suggested that both of them had seen more than could possibly be good for them.

"One of the nicest things about my present life," Legate Malfoy said with relish, "is that Amanita Lestrange isn't in it! Do you want some tea, Remus? While we wait."

**

"I'm going to miss you."

Jeannie popped her head out of the back door, thinking for one terrifying moment that Sirius had been talking to her. "What?" she said, eyeing his bowed head and turned back.

"Hmm," he looked over his shoulder at her. "I'm just saying goodbye to my friend."

He turned around and Jeannie smiled to see the grey cat in his arms. Tib was kneading his shoulder and purring like a motorbike.

"I like cats," Sirius continued. "At one time my only friend in the world was a big orange one. I used to chase him, too, when we got bored. Ah, well, down you go, Tib." He stooped and placed the cat on the floor then strolled down to the shed, unlocked the door and returned with his arms full of flattened cardboard boxes.

Jeannie watched him through the kitchen window while she made their lunch. She felt she could watch him for hours and loved spotting mannerisms that he had carried over from Dog. He seemed to have got over the manual clumsiness that had made it so difficult for him to cope with buttons and laces, but he still pawed his itching nose with the inside of his wrist. She had also noticed him shake himself violently to rearrange his robe and if she called him his initial response was always to tilt his head to one side and look a question rather than to speak. Now, concentrating on untangling the string around the boxes, his tongue tip just showed at the corner of his mouth in an unconscious parody of Dog's tongue-lolling grin.  His smile faded as he began to open the boxes up and found that the bases were loose. Obviously in his world, wherever it was (for she was still not convinced that he wasn't an alien), they didn't have the esoteric knowledge of how to tuck the base of a cardboard box together so it didn't collapse. Jeannie went to help and found his look of surprised respect when she showed him the trick of it absurdly pleasing and, consequently, couldn't resist a gentle tease.

"Fancy you not knowing how to do that?" she said, turning away, nose in the air.

Sirius grinned at her departing behind, shook his wand into his hand and hit her with a very finely placed binding spell. Jeannie squealed as she began to lose her balance but Sirius caught her before she hit the deck.

"Fancy you not knowing I could do that," he whispered into her ear. "See, you are completely at my mercy. I could do anything– anything at all."

"Well," Jeannie stopped struggling and considered him for a moment, "you could finish putting the boxes together…if you're serious about how far we've got to go tonight?"

Sirius growled and set her back on her feet.

"Oh, I hate it when women are right," he said. "Finite Incantatum."

**

The faint chime of the alarm from the next room was echoed by a crash as Harry dropped the coffee pot.

"Potter," Draco sighed as he strode towards the door. But, fast as he and Harry moved, Remus was before them. He threw open the door and darted inside and Hubbard, leaning over the monitoring station, flinched to suddenly find him at his shoulder. He gave Remus a sympathetic look but addressed himself to his superior. "A binding spell, sir. Fast and hard. Couldn't get a true fix on it but it looks like it could be at the top end of the Dale. Hawes maybe or one of the villages up there. Oh, sir…" the chime had sounded again. "There. It's off. It is in or near Hawes, sir. Sir, I don't like this."

"All right, Hubbard," Legate Malfoy's voice was acerbic. "There's no need to fly into a panic. Recall the others immediately. I want two good men in Hawes. There's an owlery there, isn't there? Tell them to ask the attendant if anything unusual has happened lately. Everybody else to assemble – in the canteen, I think. They might as well eat while they wait. I want you to be ready for the next spell – assuming there is one."

"Sir." Hubbard sounded depressed but Remus could understand that. Binding spells were very useful for keeping an opponent still while you disarmed them but also had other less innocent uses. Remus just knew that the grey haired Auror was anticipating that the next spell would be something very unpleasant indeed.

Harry touched Remus' arm and drew him back towards the main room.

"Hawes," he said, quietly. "Do you know it?"

Remus shook his head. "Not well," he replied. "It's quite small."

"Small enough," Harry asked, "for people to notice if a young woman suddenly acquired an extremely large black dog?"

"If the dog was big enough and black enough, quite possibly," Remus said. "But Harry…it might not be Hawes."

"I know," Harry sighed. "I'm just sick of waiting."

"Me, too," Remus agreed.

"Well, if you want something to do," Malfoy's back was turned but his tone was clear enough, "go and clear up the mess you made before it ruins the polish on the table. Honestly, anyone would think that you were the one brought up with servants."

Harry scowled but went through and made the mess disappear in very short order. He repaired the chipped coffee pot, refilled it and poured himself another cup.

"Remus," he said. "Will you please sit down?"

Remus paused in his pacing. Harry's comment about waiting had brought back an unwanted memory of the last time he had waited for Sirius. "Take them out," Sirius had said. "Just get them out of here. We'll guard your backs." And he had grinned, Severus' arm across his shoulders, and Severus, injured as he was, had grinned back. "Oh, for pity's sake, Moony, we'll catch you up!" Sirius had said. Remus had nodded and carried the two Weasley children out through the culvert to safety. Then he had waited…and waited…firstly at the agreed Apparation point then, against orders and against all sense, back at the mouth of the culvert. It had been a long time before he had admitted to himself what he had known all along –that Sirius and Severus were not coming and that he would be unlikely ever to see them again. 

Slowly he sank into his seat, opened the folder again and watched his old friend climbing and climbing the stairs in Cheltenham.

*

The Apparation point in Hawes was in the backyard of The White Hart. Two Muggle delivery men, man-handling barrels across the yard to the cellars, showed no sign of noticing the two cloaked men who appeared out of thin air and strode past them and out into the street, though the publican nodded a greeting. Even law abiding wizards trod very carefully in the presence of Aurors.

Five minutes later the attendant of the owlery on the top floor above the video shop was hastily setting his early lunch aside.

"No, I've seen nothing unusual," he said. "Apart from that." He raised a hand carefully and pointed to the skylight, open to allow owls to enter or depart. "That had a big crack in it yesterday," he explained, "but this morning it's right as rain." Then he lowered his hand, again carefully, and set it in clear view, alongside the other one on the desk. Sharp movements were inadvisable around wizards who were inclined to hex first and ask questions later.

One of the Aurors nodded and opened a folder. He set a photograph on the desk and turned it around so that the attendant could see it.

"We're looking for this man," he said.

"But – but that's Sirius Black. He's dead," the attendant protested.

"No, he isn't," the Auror said in a tone that brooked no argument. "Though he may be hiding in his Animagus form. Have you seen anybody walking an extremely large black dog?"

"A big black dog?" The attendant looked appalled. "Yes, yesterday afternoon. You see, about four o'clock I popped out to get a pie from the bakers…" he flinched as the other  Auror slammed a hand down hard on the desk. "I – I saw it then. It was tied up outside the shop downstairs."

"Did you see who was with it?" the first Auror asked quietly.

"No," the attendant replied. "When I came back it had been moved. It was outside the butchers. The one just down the hill."

"A bone for the dog, eh?" The two Aurors exchanged a glance. "How did it look?"

"What?" the attendant shrugged. "Like a dog. It – it was clean, with shiny fur. When I saw it two kids were patting it and it was – you know, panting a bit – then the kids ran off."

"Right," the second Auror said. "We're leaving now. You will not leave the office, you will not send any owls, you will not tell anybody you have seen us. If we miss Black for any reason – we will be back."

Outside in the street, Norton turned to Fraser and grinned. "I think we've got the fuckard," he said. "Damn, I can almost smell him." 

Fraser didn't reply but his face went a shade or two paler as he led the way to the doorway of the video shop.

The shop manager was very pleased to help the two policemen with their enquiries. He would have had to admit that he only had the haziest idea of their uniforms and warrant cards, but they were policemen, he was sure of it. "A big black dog, officer? Yeah, the lass who owns him comes in quite a lot. Just give me a sec and I'll look her up in the files." His fingers clattered across the keys of the machine on the counter and Norton sighed and rolled his eyes at Fraser. But Fraser was watching the screen intently and did not notice.

"What's the problem, anyway?" the man asked. "She doesn't seem the type to let it run wild."

"It bit a child outside the butcher's," Norton told him shortly. "Have you found that address yet?"

"Oh," the man made a face, "I'm sorry to hear that. He always seemed such a good tempered old thing. Yes, here we are. Shall I write it down for you?"

"No need, I've got it," Fraser nodded to Norton who directed his wand at the manager's face.

The manager had forgotten that they had ever existed by the time they were out of the door.

**

"I think we've about done," Jeannie said and Sirius gave a, to her mind, unnecessarily theatrical sigh and threw himself down on the sofa. 

"Down, boy." Jeannie snapped and laughed as he flinched guiltily and slid off onto the floor. "Works every time," she chuckled.

 "That was unkind," Sirius commented from his seat on the mat, "and after all the help I gave you putting the boxes in the car."

"Help was it?" she laughed. "I seem to recall that I was the one carrying the boxes. You just trotted around, waving your tail…and you did that thing with your nose – you know which thing I'm talking about, so don't give me those "who me?" eyes."

Sirius laughed up at her but it was Dog who stood up and stretched.

"Where are you going?" Jeannie asked then squealed as he ran his cold wet nose up her bare thigh as he passed. He trotted, tail wagging madly, into the kitchen, pawed the back door open and she heard the skitter of paws and a volley of barking as Dog made his own farewells to the grey cat. Jeannie smiled and looked around. There were still a few bits and pieces about – her coat and handbag, Dog's lead and the loop of rope that Sirius insisted he couldn't manage without - but the bulk of her stuff was stowed away in the car.

She felt bad about flitting with no warning but would leave her keys and a letter of resignation with the Arkwrights. There was also a note to be given to Sam saying goodbye and offering him the tomato and lettuce plants in the growbags. She sighed. Life here in Hawes had been hard but had been, on the whole, very happy and she would miss the little house and her friends. Still, there was no help for it. She and Sirius must go so they might as well go quickly. She picked up a final box, and went to the door. 

Opening the passenger door of her little car, she manhandled the box between the two seats and crammed it into the back behind the driver's seat. Honestly, three suitcases and six cardboard boxes weren't a lot to show for a life. She knelt on the seat for a moment feeling the sudden prickle of tears, then wiped her eyes and stepped out of the car, reminding herself that from now on everything would be different, she was no longer alone. True her knight errant was currently in dog form, chasing a cat down the garden but none the worse for that.

She had just turned to go back into the house when the roar of an engine made her flinch. A large, sleek Jaguar screeched to a halt beside her car, blocking it into it's parking place. Steve and Darren piled out and Jeannie turned and fled. She tried to close the front door but Darren's bulky body crashed into it, sending her flying and she screamed, a wild cry for help. If she had called his name, Sirius would have come to her aid, but that was a name to which she was not yet accustomed. Instead she screamed for her dog and it was Dog who responded. He hurled himself into the house, snarling, interposing himself between the two men and his mistress.

"Call it off," Steve snapped, his bruised face scarlet with fury.

Jeannie clambered to her feet, backing towards the back door and freedom. "No, Steve," she panted. "If you lay a hand on me he'll kill you."

Steve took a step back, then another.

"Ok, if that's the way you want it," he said and nodded to Darren.

Darren, one eye blackened and with a nose like a squashed tomato, took his hand from his pocket. Jeannie shrieked when she saw the gun and Dog leaped to one side … but not quite quickly enough. The gun spoke and Dog staggered, yelping, and collapsed onto his side.

"No, no," Jeannie wailed flinging herself towards him. But Steve caught her arm.

"I don't remember hearing such concern yesterday when that long-haired bastard was slapping your husband around," he snarled. "Your husband, who loves you, who has given up his time and money chasing round after you, you stupid, ungrateful bitch, trying to get you back."

Jeannie sobbed as he twisted her arm but her tears were for the black dog who, face and muzzle masked with blood, was moving, trying to drag himself to his feet.

"Please," she begged. "Let me help him."

"Why should I?" Steve laughed. "Darren, finish the job."

Darren levelled the pistol again then flinched back with a guttural cry of alarm as the dog moved. Black fur turned to green fabric, pale skin and black hair as Sirius surged to his feet wand in hand. Blood was dripping freely from a scalp wound and he was unsteady upon his feet but his eyes burned in his white face.

Jeannie tore herself free from Steve's suddenly lax grip and stepped aside just as the wand came up and Sirius whispered a word. Then she looked on in horror as her husband and her brother-in-law fell, shrieking, their heels drumming on the ground, fingers clawing their own faces and bodies.

"Sirius," she gasped. "Sirius, stop it. Stop it." She stepped towards him but he slipped aside, laughing a little and licking the blood from his lips with apparent relish. "Please," she begged and tried to grab his hand.

He flinched as though she was unclean. "Get away from me, Muggle," he hissed.

**

  
              "No!" Malfoy's furious shout, cut through the blare of the alarm like a knife. "Oh God, no."  
           Harry and Remus were also on their feet, appalled, because they both knew only too well what that particular sound meant. Harry threw up his hands, drove them into his hair and turned to Remus but, again, Remus was on his way to Hubbard's side.  
            "Where?" he demanded, his face set and white.  
            Hubbard tore the trace out of the machine. "Legate Malfoy," he said quietly, making the formal report that was required before the Aurors could be given dispensation to meet force with equal force. "It is with regret that I must inform you that a 'Cruc….'"  
           "Hubbard," Malfoy cut across him … a startling breach of protocol. "Just give us the location, there's a good fellow."   
Hubbard closed his mouth and glanced at Harry and then at Remus. He nodded and handed Malfoy the trace.  
           "Thank you, Hubbard," Malfoy said. "Now go and gather the troops. Second level defence only and remind them that we need Black alive."  
           "But, sir…"Hubbard protested. "We must warn them. You know what they could be facing." 

      "Malfoy," Harry's voice sounded tight but his face was set with determination. "Have you taken leave of your senses? You know what this means! You know the regulations. You must give the order." 

Draco raised his eyebrows, high-nosed and made a show of checking the insignia on his collar. "I'm afraid," he said with the smirk that Harry remembered all too well from their years at school, "that this says that I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. You are here on sufferance, Potter, and, if I choose, I can have you restrained. There are some things more important to Aurors than regulations."

Hubbard gaped at him. The Legate was perfectly correct – there were times when Aurors threw away the book, times when a situation arose that no amount of training could prepare you for, but Legate Malfoy was also notorious for observing the forms. "Sir?" he repeated, utterly confused.

"Hubbard, have you never heard of the Black Principle?" Malfoy asked as he caught up his cloak and led the way towards the door.

"Sir!" Hubbard sounded shocked.

Malfoy met Harry's astounded gaze and shrugged. "They say it works nine times out of ten." he said  
Remus followed them, reflecting soberly that while one might rely on one's instincts nine times out of ten, he knew - who better - that on the tenth occasion, one could bugger up big time.

**


	13. Black Dog Chapter 12 and epilogue

**Black Dog**

This is the final chapter and the Epilogue of Black Dog and both are dedicated to a specific Draco and his best beloved Neville, a marriage made heaven and also in Manchester. For those of you who haven't read A J Hall's Lust Over Pendle, you don't know what you've been missing! For those of you who have, a sequel is shortly to be published – look out for Dissipation and Despair! 

**Chapter Twelve**

Jeannie wrung her hands. She'd read about people doing it but had certainly never done it herself. In fact, if she had been asked, she would have said she had no idea how to do it and, moreover, couldn't imagine any circumstances under which she might have to learn. Now, she tangled her fingers together under her chin and moaned as the stranger in her living room laughed happily and made a gesture that caused her husband and her brother-in-law to convulse again, screams tearing from throats already raw from screaming.

"Sirius," Jeannie wept. "Oh, please, Sirius."

"Who?" He tilted his head towards her and eyed her sidelong. "Be quiet," he warned, almost playfully, "and wait your turn."

Jeannie felt the blood leave her cheeks then, suddenly and wonderfully, she was angry. This was her house – at the moment – and she had had enough of being bullied and pushed around. She snatched up the loop of rope with which she and Dog had had so many excellent games and slashed him with it as hard as she could. It felt so good she did it again, and again.

Sirius, meanwhile, was fighting a battle of his own. The shock of the bullet wound had stunned and disoriented him – just long enough for the sick thing with it's gibbering attendant to emerge, roaring its glee to be back in charge of a body again. Snarling and writhing, Sirius battered at them with his will, clawing and grappling for self control. At Jeannie's first blow, the attendant fled, wailing. Sirius' heart lifted and he struggled the harder, crushing and pressing the sick thing into a smaller and smaller space until it was no more than a small dark kernel – like the worm at the heart of an apple. Then he was back and opened his eyes and saw what he had done.

Jeannie's hand was drawn back for another blow when she saw him come to himself. She saw his eyes close and his mouth open and his head go back. He made no sound that she could hear but she knew that somewhere, perhaps deep in his heart, he was howling.

"Sirius?" she asked.

He looked down at her and took the hand that had hit him and kissed it, holding it and the bloody rope to his face.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you, Jeannie." He paused, gazing down at the two men, and a hopeless, defeated look crumpled his face. "Where are the papers?" he asked.

"Papers? What papers?" Jeannie, confused, looked helplessly around.

Sirius sighed and said a word. Her handbag flew open and sheaf of folded sheets zipped into his hand. At another word they were joined by a pen.

"You," he said harshly to Steve who was still lying, panting, on the floor. "Sign these."

Steve looked up at him with eyes dulled with terror then did one of the bravest, and possibly most stupid things, even Sirius had ever seen. "No," he said. "She's my wife and I love her. I won't sign the papers."

"Steve," Jeannie protested. "I won't come back. Sign them and let me go."

Steve, his eyes still fixed on Sirius, shook his head once and braced himself for a renewed onslaught of agony.

Sirius looked at Jeannie and took her hand again. "I can make him," he said. "If you say the word, he'll sign them. Everybody cracks eventually."

Jeannie drew breath to give the word. "No," she sighed. "We'll run and if he follows us we'll run again."

Sirius nodded sadly and raised his wand. "I thought you'd say that," he told her, "and I can't let you live like that. It wouldn't be fair." He levelled the wand at the two men and almost sighed "Imperio." Steve and Darren's tense bodies relaxed and they listened attentively as he told them to get up. 

"You," he pointed to Steve, "will sign these papers and you, Darren, will witness his signature. From this point on you will consider your marriage to be at an end. You will make no attempt to contact Jeannie and if at some time you should meet her accidentally you will treat her with care and consideration and courtesy. You will forget this address, you will forget me but, if you ever think of Jeannie again with anything other than wistful regret, you will remember the pain."

Under his instruction Darren turned to make a back for Steve to rest upon then they turned about while Darren countersigned. Sirius took the papers, folded them and placed them in Jeannie's hands. "You may go," he said to the two men.

"Good bye, Jeannie," Steve said softly. "Good luck."

"Good bye, Steve," she replied, holding her freedom tightly in both hands.

Darren, obviously wondering why his trousers were so wet, said nothing but followed his brother to the door – which burst open.

Two men darted inside, yelling, arms extended, and flame roared past Jeannie's head. She screamed and fell as something pushed her violently to the ground and she rolled over to see Sirius dodge another flash.

"'Ware Muggles," Sirius shouted as the two Aurors separated in a slick move he couldn't have done better himself. "Wands up." After pushing Jeannie to the ground he threw himself across the room, desperate to put some distance between her and himself – target of who knew what. He dodged one particularly vicious hex and blocked but did not return an immobilisation charm, then his luck ran out and he stumbled. The 'Contortio' curse hit him squarely and he choked on a scream as his body twisted, all his muscles forcing his joints back against themselves. It was painful, horrifically painful, but more to the point, with his spine bent like a bow, his jaws locked, teeth grinding and his fingers splaying sending his wand across the room to bounce off the fireplace, he was incapable of fighting back. There was only one thing left to do.

His moan of pain deepened to a gruff snarl as he began to transform, hoping that the Transfiguration would negate the effects of the curse but one of the Aurors spat a counterspell and Sirius slammed back into his own shape with enough force to rock him back, body arching. He toppled over onto his side then he screamed again as blue fire flickered from the end of the closest man's wand to play across his face and body, burning without consuming.

Jeannie was frozen with horror. Steve and Darren, cowering by the door, were too terrified to move, though they watched with sick avidity as one of the newcomers laughed and drove a kick into Sirius side.

"Got you," he gloated, then grinned over his shoulder to his companion. "Want a go, Jase?"

"Bind him, dammit," the other one said, his pale face betraying only weariness. "Leave him to the authorities. They'll deal with him."

"You think?" He slammed in another kick, nicely placed to hurt without incapacitating. "With his connections? He'll never go to trial. This way he'll get what's coming to him, the tax payers are saved the expense and as for the witnesses – well, they're Muggles. Who bloody cares?"

"I care," Jase replied as ropes spooled out from his wand, lashing Sirius at wrist and elbow and knee. "Dammit, Norden, this what we fought for – this is why he is as he is, poor bastard – so that there are proper trials, so that people aren't just thrown away… like he once was."

Norden snorted. "Azkaban's too good for this one now. I know … he was a good Auror once… but Dumbledore and the Order took him and twisted him. He did what he had to in the only way it could be done but, Fraser, somewhere along the line he began to enjoy it. If we take him back they'll find some way of letting him off and we can't let this – animal loose! There's no place for him now. It would be like taking a – a werewolf into your home. The only thing to do is put him down – now – quickly."

"No," Fraser said bleakly. 

"Yes," the word was barely audible. Jeannie tore her eyes away from Norden, whom she had been watching with terrified horror, to see that Sirius had made it to his knees. "Yes," he repeated, "let it end, now." Jeannie cried out and he turned his head to face her. "They killed the dogs…the fighting dogs," he explained, "and they were like me so it would be the right thing to do. But, please, not here. Not in front of her." 

"Bugger that," Norden replied with a leer at Jeannie. "It might teach her to be a bit more careful who she lets into her bed."

"No," Fraser said more strongly. "There will be a trial. He will give evidence… and we will identify and account for all the – missing persons. Then – let justice be done."

Sirius drew a sharp breath. "I won't go back," he said shakily. "Not to that."

"Scared are you," Norden sneered. "I bet you did things that would make me puke my boots up, things you wouldn't like to spend the rest of your life reliving, perhaps. Perhaps Azkaban's a better bet after all. What d'you think Jase? A small cell with a twenty-four hour watch and anti-transfiguration wards? No opportunity for your doggy tricks then, eh?"

Fraser went a shade paler and his eyes slid away from Sirius appalled face. "Shall I contact the Legate or shall you?" he asked.

Sirius caught Jeannie's eye and she saw both an apology and a farewell in his gaze as he gave her a lopsided smile. Then his face set and he sneered up at Fraser. "Don't be too quick to call your boss," he snarled. "There's only one question you want answered – you want to know what happened to Gail…you want to know how your wife died."

Both Norden and Fraser stopped dead and looked down at him.

"His wife and my sister, you sick bastard," Norden growled.

"Yes, she was, wasn't she," Sirius sighed. "After Lucius had finished with her they gave her to me. She died in my arms, Jason, in my arms. And I'd do it again."

Fraser gave an anguished gasp but turned grabbing Norden's arm. Norden shook him off. He howled a curse and levelled his wand at Sirius' rigid body.

 "Expelliarmus," the quietly spoken word cut across what Norden had begun to say. Norden's feet left the ground and he flew the few feet back to crash into and slide down the wall. 

"Sir," Fraser gasped, his voice shaking. 

Jeannie gaped at the new arrival, standing at his ease in the kitchen doorway. Tall and slender, robed from neck to ankles in the darkest of blues, he was fair and pale and had the coldest eyes she'd ever seen. He stepped into the room, allowing four more similarly attired men to enter, and looked down at Sirius, his wand in his hand, and shook his head.

Sirius, still on his knees, lifted his chin and stared up into the newcomer's eyes.  "Do it," he said through bared teeth. "Just do it, boy."

A tense silence fell as the other men paused with what they were doing. Two stooping over Norden, froze, bent at an uncomfortable angle. They all looked, aghast, at the fair young man.

"Boy?" he repeated, then his lips twisted in an approximation of a smile.

"I'll take that from you," he conceded, but the glance that raked the room warned that nobody else had better take any liberties. "Stay put and shut up… Fraser, can you report?"

Fraser drew a deep breath and, very succinctly described how they had come by Jeannie's address. "We were just about to contact you, sir, when we heard him use an Imperio, so we decided not to wait. When the door opened we just burst in and Norden…"

"Norden decided to save us all the bother of a trial," 'Sir' finished for him  then spoke over his shoulder to the two men supporting the unconscious Norden. "Take that back to Headquarters and toss it into a cell," he ordered. "I'll deal with it – in the fullness of time. Protheroe, take those two Muggles into the kitchen and find out what's been happening here. Young … lady, I suggest you take a seat. Matthews check the street. If anybody saw anything – you know what to do. Fraser, fetch our two observers if you will." He took a pace towards the door with the older man, laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly for a moment or two. Fraser replied, raising a hand to cover his eyes, and the hand clenched on his shoulder then fell away. "If you would be so kind, Fraser?"

"Yes, Legate," Fraser left by the front door, squaring his shoulders with a visible effort.

"I believe I instructed you to take a seat, madam." The Legate stooped to take Jeannie's hand and raised her to her feet and placed her in a chair facing Sirius.

"Legate Malfoy," Sirius voice was weak, and all his defiance seemed to have drained away. Yet he still looked up at the fair young man and spoke quite clearly. "Jeannie…the Imperio...I beg you, if you lift it, establish wards so those two men don't return. It was for her protection."

From the kitchen they could hear Steve's excited voice gabbling that 'his eyes lit up like traffic lights' and Darren's gruff confirmation. The Legate's head scarcely moved at all yet Sirius relaxed and gave Jeannie a wan smile and she realised that some kind of bargain had been made.

"No," she said, her anger beginning to return. "I don't understand any of this. I don't know who you are but, please, leave us alone."

"I'm sorry, Jeannie," Sirius told her sadly. "I'm so sorry. All I wanted was for you to be happy. I know I promised I'd look after you but the Legate is an honourable man." The Legate's eyebrows rose at that but he said nothing. He folded his arms and nodded for Sirius to continue. "He will see that you come to no harm when – when I'm gone," Sirius faltered. "I – I have debts to pay and …" he glanced up at Malfoy and flushed to see his interested and derisive expression. "Malfoy? Draco?"

"Oh, don't stop," he replied. " I just love it when you're being heroic."  The Legate's smile broadened and he bent a lucent and benign gaze upon Jeannie. "Your knight in shining armour," he told her, "is more than he seems. Far more dangerous, for a start. I'm sorry but, for your own safety, I just daren't leave him here. I only wish I could; the paperwork is going to be horrendous. For a start, he is officially dead."

"Then let us go," Jeannie suggested. "The car is packed. You could – say we escaped."

"You escaped from me?" the fair brows rose in incredulity. "Nobody would believe that." He paused, considering Sirius whose head was down again. "If my old friend and mentor there had his hands free and his wand, then yes, perhaps. But I'm afraid those ropes stay on." Jeannie took a breath to protest but he gestured with his wand and murmured a word and she sank back in the chair, fuming but temporarily - she hoped - lost for words. Legate Malfoy turned to look down at Sirius again. "You see, even I don't know where all the bodies are buried but between us we should account for most of them. The families, you understand, need to know. For instance, I can't begin to describe the feeling of – of closure that I experienced when I could see, with my own eyes, that my father was truly and irrevocably dead. And Mother, poor dear, is still euphoric."

"Why?" The word seemed to be dragged out of Sirius on hooks. "Why did you have to find me? Why didn't you just let your men finish me off?"

"That's your fault," the Legate smiled. "You taught me that when in doubt I should go with my instincts. We couldn't leave you alone… not with the amount of power you have sloshing around inside your head. The potential for accidents is enormous even without the malign promptings you must be getting from your – um – passengers. But it was also my instinct that even with your niggling little possession problem, the combination of Pettigrew's cowardice and your sheer bloody-minded strength would be enough to offset the –  other presence squatting in your psyche like a big fat leech. And I was right. Score another success to the Black Principle[1]."

"Oh…fuck," Sirius groaned.

"Yes, you've always been your own worst enemy – homicidal, malignant megalomaniacs excepted – oh, and Severus Snape." There was a short silence as their eyes met. "I never thought I'd have the chance to thank you for what you did for him," the Legate said, very softly. "You crazy son of a bitch."

Behind Sirius the front door opened and Fraser entered followed by two men. Jeannie eyed them with apprehension as they approached. One was tall and dark with a cold impersonal gaze behind narrow rimmed glasses that fixed upon Sirius to the exclusion of everything else in the room but the other's wide set, long lashed eyes met hers, warming her to the marrow.

"So," the Legate said, raising his voice a little to mask the sound of their footsteps. "Thank you and let's have no more of this tedious death wish. We both did some disgusting things and now we have to live with it. If I can do it, so can you."

"To what purpose?" Sirius asked. "What is there left for me to do now?"

"Oh, please," the Legate's lip curled delicately. "I'll accept certain things from you – up to and including you calling me 'boy' – but not and never self pity." He made an imperious gesture and the ropes fell away. "You two…you can take him now."

Hands were laid upon Sirius' tense shoulders and his eyes fixed upon Jeannie as he was raised to his feet. Jeannie drew in a breath on a sob – he looked so utterly desolate – then his nostrils twitched and his whole aspect changed. His arms swept wide and the two men flanking him were snatched off their feet and clasped to his sides, their three heads, black and tawny, close together. 

"I thought you were dead. Oh, my boy, I thought you were dead." She could hear him whimpering as he held the dark young man close, kissing him on the cheek so hard that he dislodged his spectacles while at the same time trying not to lose his grip on the other one. The young man's cold mask had eased into a smile of utter relief and he stepped out of Sirius arms to urge him to pull his friend into a closer embrace, then wrapped his arms around both men.

"Gods, Moony, I've missed you so much," Sirius gasped. "When I thought you had both died I…"

The other man laughed, a joyous bubble of sound even though there were tears in it, and pressed his forehead to Sirius bloodstained cheek. "Oh, Padfoot, it was just like you not to check."

Sirius gave a wild whoop, his breath tore in his throat and he collapsed in their arms, choking on his happiness and grief.

Jeannie wiped tears from her cheeks and found that she could speak again. "There," she said, "I knew it was too good to be true. He's kind, civilised and can cook. Of course he's going to be gay!"

"That's going a little far," the Legate commented coolly, with the barest suspicion of a genuine smile curving his lips, "though he's certainly elated."

The dark haired man laughed at the Legate over Sirius shoulder. "Ignore him," he advised, "he's ignorant. This is a family reunion, Miss Lawrence. My names's Harry and Sirius is my father and Remus is – well, the closest thing he has to a brother." He gently detached his arm from Sirius grip and stepped across to take her hand. "I understand that I have to thank you for looking after Sirius while he's been so ill."

"Ill?" Jeannie began to ask but was startled as the Legate clapped his hands violently and glared round at Matthews, on the doorstep, Protheroe at the kitchen door and Fraser, who was looking on smiling wryly.

"What's this? A bloody circus?" the Legate demanded. "Matthews, get that car shifted, Fraser, Protheroe, deal with those Muggles. When Hubbard gets back I want to see him. Harry, can I trust you to question Miss Lawrence sensibly? And  Mr Lupin, Mr Black," he fixed them both with a high-nosed glare, "would you kindly stop horsing around and sit down!"

"Ten points from Gryffindor," Sirius and his friend chorused. Sirius turned and seized Jeannie around the waist drawing her down beside him as he seated himself on the couch. Mr Lupin sat on the arm of it, gave her another beaming smile and seized Sirius' head between his hands, the better to examine his scalp-wound.

"Don't be such a baby, Padfoot," he murmured as Sirius tried to free himself. 

Harry came to sit beside them and took her hand. "Now, Miss Lawrence or – please – may I call you Jeannie? Tell us all about it while Remus finds out whether we'll have to amputate."

She looked up at Sirius, who had his eyes closed allowing Lupin to part his hair with careful fingers.

"Is he going to be all right?" she asked Lupin who nodded, though his smile was a little strained. "Please, tell Harry what happened today," he asked.

After a couple of false starts she did, back tracking at a couple of points to describe how she had discovered that her dog wasn't the run of the mill family pet. As she spoke she felt her self control beginning to diminish. She had done very well up to now, she thought, but a bout of hysterics was long overdue and Sirius' face, under the streaks of blood, was turning grey.

"That's it, that's everything," she said, finally. "I can't tell you any more. But…but, I want to know – who are you, why are you here? Why was that man treating Sirius like he was – the Yorkshire Ripper? What," she begged, "is going on?"

Before she could draw breath she was enfolded in a loving embrace. Sirius pressed a kiss to her temple. "Don't cry Jeannie," he said. "Please, don't cry."

A hand stroked her hair and she looked up into the warm golden eyes of his friend, Remus. "Thank you," he said, "for caring for Sirius. He has the most remarkable facility for getting into trouble of anyone I know."

"Except for Harry," Sirius protested with an affectionate look at his son then winced, lifting a hand to his forehead. 

Harry's eyes were dark with worry and he shot a sharp glance at Remus who sighed and nodded.

"Sirius," Harry said firmly, "That head injury must be treated – it can't wait any longer. You must come with us."

Sirius made an incoherent sound of protest and his arms tightened around Jeannie. "No, I won't," he growled. "I'm not leaving Jeannie. I promised I'd look after her," he added, simply.

"Sirius," Remus voice was very calm. "You can't look after Jeannie if you're ill, can you? Please, come with me."  

"What's wrong with him?" Jeannie asked, pulling free and standing up. She leaned forward and lifted Sirius' chin to look into his face. "Oh God, his eyes. I'll ring for an ambulance."

"No." Harry's protest was echoed by Remus and the Legate, who stepped in from the kitchen accompanied by Fraser.

"What's the problem?" the Legate demanded.

"He must have an ambulance," Jeannie cried. "Look at his eyes, look at the pupils – one's a pinprick, the other's enormous."

Sirius suddenly began to giggle. "Enormous pinprick," he said, delighted, the words slurring drunkenly.

"It's a skull fracture, then," the Legate sighed. "Would it be too much to ask that something should be simple for a change? Harry, Remus, get him up. Fraser, go ahead and warn them we're on the way. The – room is booked but tell them we want Shukely on the case, not that butcher Basing, and tell Shukely that he'd better come through if he doesn't want to die unshriven, and if he doesn't believe that, tell him that the message is from me!" 

Fraser nodded and went back through the kitchen and into the garden.

"He needs to be in hospital," Jeannie said as Harry and Remus began to lever Sirius to his feet. He was shaky and kept covering his left eye with his hand.

"That's exactly where we're taking him," Remus assured her, staggering a little as Sirius dug in his heels uncooperatively. 

"Jeannie?" Sirius murmured, as the two men drew his arms across their shoulders and began to move him towards the kitchen, half carrying and half dragging him. "Jeannie, come with me."

She followed, aghast, stopping to snarl at Darren . "If he dies," she said, "you'll be a murderer." But he just looked calmly at her, his face bland and relaxed, and she turned away and followed the three men into her little garden.

"Jeannie," Sirius was calling, his voice rising high and panicky as he struggled to turn around. "Please. No, no I won't go. I won't leave her. You don't understand. I have to look after her. I must! I promised! Jeannie!"

She ran to him and wrapped her arms around his chest. "Yes," she said. "I'm here." She glared at Harry and Remus. 

Harry slipped out from under Sirius' arm and eased him more fully into Remus' care. Then he faced Jeannie squarely and touched her gently on the shoulder. "Do you really think either of us would do anything to hurt him?" he asked. "We are taking him somewhere where his injuries can be treated and he can be – kept safe," Harry told her. "We are very sorry but we can't let you come with us."

"But where?" Jeannie demanded. "How will I find out how he is? When will I be able to see him again?"

"Jeannie," Sirius' voice was growing more slurred. "You know I never meant to hurt you…I wanted you to be happy…I'd have stayed …I would!…I'd have loved you."

"For pity's sake," the Legate's voice was like the crack of a whip. "Get that man to hospital or cut out the middleman and take him directly to the mortuary – either way, get him out of here!"

Harry seized Jeannie's shoulders and pulled her away from Sirius, who cried out as his hair caught in her clutching hands. Left with just a few curling black strands between her fingers she sobbed up at him as his knees began to buckle. Remus caught him up with astonishing strength and held him across his arms.

"Trust me, Padfoot," he said. "I'll be with you every step of the way. Jeannie, if it's any comfort, he meant what he said. He would have stayed and he would have loved you. Harry?"

"I'll follow when I can," Harry assured him, maintaining his grip on Jeannie's shoulders.

Jeannie's cry froze in her throat as the two figures winked out of existence with a dull pop. "What…where is he taking him?"

"Somewhere he can get the help that he needs," Harry replied, evasively.

"Whether he wants it or not," the Legate added, appearing at her elbow and deftly extracting the strands of Sirius' hair from between her fingers. "Stupefy." 

"Draco," Harry scowled as the Legate swayed aside leaving Harry to grab Jeannie's unconscious body.

"Pretty little thing," Draco commented, "and, my, doesn't she look like your esteemed housemate. Sirius has some major baggage to unload…as, I understand, has Ms Granger. Perhaps, with them back together, your memory modifications will work properly." He nodded at the woman in Harry's arms. "Where do you want her?"

"Anywhere she can wake up comfortably, having had a peculiar dream. I feel so badly about this. She didn't deserve any of it."

"Sirius didn't deserve what happened to him," Draco pointed out, winding the black hair round his fingers, "and certainly doesn't deserve what will happen to him over the next few months, assuming they can mend that hard head of his. Shukely's the best of the bunch but they're all butchers in the secure unit at St Mungo's."

Harry looked sharply at him. "Sympathy for Sirius? From you?"

Draco's lip curled scornfully. "Don't kid yourself that you know the half of it, Potter," he replied. "With all that he went through so you could get your shot at Voldemort – it's a wonder he's even as sane as he is. And that is why, of course. You know, when I was on my Auror training, he was in charge of our Muggle Familiarisation Course. I hated it. I especially hated the night he took us all to what I believe they call a 'disco'. But that night I saw him pull the best-looking woman in the room by offering to take her out into the car park and show her his broomstick. There's just not enough of that kind of lunatic self confidence in the world."

As Harry laughed, remembering the night very well for his own reasons, Draco levelled his wand at his fingers, whispered a word and slipped a small dark object onto one of Jeannie's fingers. "That should do it," he said with a self satisfied grin.

"What?" Harry peered down at her hand. The ring was black and shiny, jet perhaps, and carved with a star. "Draco, what did you do?"

"There's powerful magic," Draco smirked, "in the last wishes of a dying man – even if he's subsequently revived. She'll be loved by somebody and whoever he is will stay with her. It only seems fair – after all, Sirius did …um…introduce me to my ... significant other."

Harry shook his head, having given up trying to guess when and how Draco would drop his pose and perform one of his occasional acts of grace. They both stood looking at Jeannie then Draco sighed.

"Well," he said, "are you going to stand there all day or are you going to do something useful?" He removed the woman from Harry's arms and went into the house where, after a moment, Harry heard his voice raised, its hectoring tone clearly audible. 

Harry followed him into an, apparently, empty house. Outside he could hear the powerful engine of a car receding down the street and Matthews voice speaking soothingly. Footsteps crossed the floor of the room above but, where he stood at the door between the kitchen and the sitting room, all was quiet. He looked about him – at the bloodstains on the carpet and sofa and sighed. The clean-up gangs would be arriving soon and he didn't want to have to run the usual gauntlet of hushed voices and pointing fingers. He retrieved Sirius' wand from where it had rolled against the fireplace and, after a moment's hesitation, picked up the loop of rope. He smiled at it, remembering the absurd picture on the television of a laughing kennel maid in a low cut t-shirt, stooping to play tug of war with an enormous black dog. How much of that, he wondered, had been genuine canine playfulness and how much his godfather's natural eagerness to cop an eyeful? He coiled the rope against his palm and went back out into the garden – Sirius would be needing something to remind him how to have fun. He shook his wand into his hand then stood, nonplussed. There was no point going to the hospital yet – Sirius' head wound would be being treated and Remus was perfectly capable of negotiating the exact terms of his subsequent – well, he supposed exorcism wouldn't be too strong a term to use. How that would be accomplished he had no idea but the thought filled him with disquiet. He felt the sudden need to be at home, for warmth, for understanding company, but there would be nobody there. Remus would be staying with Sirius until he was able to leave St Mungo's. Harry knew this. To leave Sirius alone there without the calming presence of a loved one would merely create the situations they all wished to avoid. Hermione … she would be staying at the Burrow, certainly until further notice, possibly for good. 

Something Dumbledore had said to him shortly before he died suddenly came to him.

"It's a hard path, Harry," the old man had said, "and few of us are strong enough to bear it. And those of us who are, have to get used to walking it alone."

He sighed and hefted the piece of rope. There was nobody to hear the pop as he disappeared.

**

Jeannie awoke as the afternoon light streamed from the bathroom window, across the landing and into her eyes. She winced. That had to have been about the worst migraine of her life but she was feeling much better now. Slowly she pushed back the duvet and sat up, the pale green silk of her best nightslip sliding glassily over her skin. Puzzled, she smoothed the fine material. She must have felt ill to have put this on. Sighing, she reached for her dressing gown.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, she drew herself a glass of water and stood sipping it and looking down the garden. A patch of grass, a few tomato plants, pot marigolds, glowing more brightly in the warm light than such simple plants had any right to. The house was utterly silent and she had never felt so alone. She turned her head and looked at the hook on the back door.

"Pull yourself together woman," she said, shaking her head to dismiss the vision of a loop of rope and a long leather leash.

She had just turned towards the fridge to find something to eat when she heard a bark and the doorbell rang.

**

Epilogue

That day there was a lazy wind. At least, that's what Remus called it – a wind that couldn't be bothered to go round you but went straight through instead. However, the sky was bright and there were primroses growing in the sheltered spots and everywhere, bleating, skipping, suckling with their little tails awag, were this years lambs. He liked lambs, he remembered.

There had been hell to pay at the hospital. "I cannot see that it is the best interest of the patient to be reminded of such events," Shukely had said. "It would be better for him to put it all behind him, forget about her."

"I disagree," Remus had said firmly. "He is still desperately concerned for the woman, still assuming responsibility for her welfare. To see that she is well and content can surely only be therapeutic for him. Perhaps then he will be able make a fresh start but now…" 

Shukely had pooh-poohed this, reminding Remus that he (Shukely) was an expert in magically induced dementia while Remus was only a concerned by-stander. 

At the raised voices, he had felt the beginnings of the familiar panic, the overwhelming desire to retreat, withdraw, to hide behind a façade of warm black fur, but the binding spells prevented that. He hid in a corner instead, turning his back and attempting to lay his nose on his paws, but both nose and paws were the wrong shape. Shukely had sighed in exasperation and called for an orderly.

"See," the doctor said. "At every opportunity he reverts to his Animagus form. Failing that, he assumes the persona of the dog as he is doing now.  To keep him a human mind in a human body is requiring a degree of force that can only be applied here. No, Mr Lupin, he must complete his course of treatment and you must forget the unfortunate young woman. She can contribute nothing to Mr Black's recovery. She was only a Muggle, after all."

Remus had smiled sweetly and had produced incontrovertible discharge papers signed by the Minister himself and then laid into the man, telling him exactly what Remus thought of both Shukely's 'treatments' and his attitude. 

"Antediluvian bollocks" had been one phrase that had particularly stuck in the mind and he said it again now, lingering lovingly over the syllables. 

"Yes, that's right," Remus said, cheerfully, his cloak collar turned up and his scarf wound about his neck. "Come on, then. Let's see if we can find her."

Shukley had had to give in but not without many a protest. "How on earth will you cope with him?" he had demanded on the day they had come to collect him. Harry had shrugged, more intent on clipping the lead securely to the collar than mollifying Shukely's outraged medical pride.

"Well, you've tried thaumic shocks, immersion in ice water, sleep deprivation and plain old fashioned brutality," Harry replied. "So it occurred to us to try a different approach and we consulted an expert in animals. He recommended that we try rewards and kindness."

"It's got to be worth a try," Remus added. "Plus a little bribery, bargaining and a rolled up newspaper if absolutely necessary."

So far it seemed to be working and today Remus had decided that he was ready for this. 

The house in Mafeking Row had been different. Children had answered the door and said no Miss Lawrence didn't live there any more and he had begun to feel really bad. Then their Mum had come and said that she had seen Jeannie going for a walk – that way. He knew what that meant and led Remus down the street and up the lane and onto the hillside overlooking the town. Remus had laughed, puffing a little at his heels.

"Wait a bit, my legs aren't as long as yours are," Remus had gasped and had grabbed his arm. But now they were high up on the windy hillside with all the little town laid out before them. There was the street, the pub where they had arrived and that – just there – was the butcher's. 

He looked around, pushing his hair out of his eyes. That had been one of his big successes. Shukely had had it clipped short for the whole of the time he was shut up – short so it was easy to stick those things on his head. As soon as he was free he worked it out all by himself - they couldn't stick those things, the things that hurt, on properly if your hair was really long. Remus and Harry had been so happy, when they let him out one morning and made him change back, to find his hair had grown back to its old length. Once he'd cracked the skill of dressing himself he'd be almost back to normal.

There was nobody to be seen walking on the path so that meant she would be … yes. 

In a hollow in the side of the hill, shielded by the ridge from the worst of the wind was an old wrought iron bench and there, as he had hoped, she was.

Remus stopped and lay a hand on his arm but he wasn't about to go any closer.

They sat together, his arm along the back of the bench around her shoulders, her head resting in the hollow of his neck. The dog with orange eyebrows trotted purposefully about with a large splintery stick clamped in its jaws.

He drew breath to speak but, as so often happened these days, he couldn't think of the right words to say. Instead, he looked up at the sky, at the clouds racing across the fine blue dome of it that slowly blurred into a dazzle of white. After a moment or two, he looked down again and Remus reached out with his handkerchief.

"You did this," Remus said softly. "Look, you can see it. She's happy."

"Happy?" he repeated.

"Yes, you made her happy. First when you were with her and then by letting her be with him. Who is it? Do you know him?"

He studied the man for a moment. Of course he knew him. He remembered a number of excellent walks, a strong hand patting his shoulder and rubbing his ears. A name came to mind.

"Tag," he said, then his breath began to come short and his eyes were wet again. He turned to Remus, putting out a hand. "Please," he begged.

"You must learn to cope, you know. We love Padfoot but we love you, too," Remus said gently. "Oh, Sirius! Well…it is the first time today…go on then, but only for a little while – just…as far as the top of the lane. Promise?"

"Promise," he replied and carefully gathered the enormous amounts of power at his disposal, feeling his pain distance then deaden.

The world was now drab and grey but the smell of it was … wonderful!

Remus' scent was sharp with concern and worry so he pushed his head against Remus' hip until Remus sighed and laughed. "Come on, Padfoot," he said.  Then Remus turned to walk away, murmuring something about needing a holiday and paying a visit to the seaside when the weather improved a bit, but he paused, looking back at the couple on the bench.

Happiness was what he had wished for her – did it matter so much if it was not with him? The man leaned closer and she turned up her face to be kissed. The little dog jumped up, his paws on her knee. Happiness was what he had wished for her and his wish seemed to have come true.

"Padfoot!" Remus voice rang down the cold wind and the black dog barked once in farewell and, plumy tail waving, trotted over the ridge and away.

**

END

**

Well…that's it. Many thanks to the few brave souls who read it right from the beginning, including those couple of chapters when I was messing around pretending to be Henry Williamson and following the rule 'why use one word when twenty-eight will do'. 

Prequels are currently under construction. For those of you who are desperately worried about Sirius and want to know whether he makes a full recovery, a sequel already exists  - a one shot called Writer's Block. It's bad but answers a few questions. An illustrated version of Black Dog, including the R bits, is in the pipeline.

  


* * *

[1] Ch3 The Black Principle still taught in Auror school – 'Instinct first, thought when the smoke clears'.


End file.
